#seditious words

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"SMITH'S BAIL $10,000 TRIAL OPENS FEB. 19," Toronto Star. February 2, 1934. Page 1. ---- Defence Protests Short Time Allowed Blind Man One of Bondsmen ---- Rev. A. E. Smith appeared before Mr. Justice Kingstone in assize court this morning and pleaded not guilty to the charge of using seditious language.

His counsel, Onie Brown, offered this plea on behalf of his client, but his lordship refused to accept the plea until he heard it from accused himself.

An adjournment for two months to enable him, to prepare his case was sought by Mr. Brown, but after emphatic objection by Peter White, K.C., on behalf of the crown, his lordship allowed two weeks, naming Monday, February 19, as the trial date.

Bail was set at $10,000, $5,000 of which was provided by the accused and $5,000 by John A. Murray, blind piano tuner, and Anthony Markus.

Mr. Brown told the court two weeks would not be sufficient to prepare his client's defence properly. He wished to get into touch with persons who were at the meeting in Hygeia Hall on the occasion, when the alleged sedition was spoken.

"If you can show good reason on Feb. 19, why you have not been able to get your defence ready, I have no doubt the presiding judge may grant a further stay," his lordship commented.

Mr. White: "I wish my learned friend to take fair warning now that I intend to proceed with this case on the date set."

"How do you plead?" His lordship asked Smith. "Not guilty, my lord," replied defence counsel.

"I would like the plea from the accused himself." remarked his lord- ship, Mr. Smith repeating his counsel's reply.

[taylor-titmouse]

When a story has a kink you like, what writing flaws does it take for you to find the portrayal of it unerotic? Is there anything writers should keep in mind while maintaining eroticism, or is that so specific-reader-dependent that it's futile?

everyone's least favorite answer: "it depends". when you get into the specifics of eroticism, what makes one thing erotic or unerotic depends entirely on the context it exists in. let's use bdsm as an example, because most people grasp the basics of it.

you have a dom, a sub, and (if you're responsible) some pre-negotiated rules determining how they both should behave. simple enough.

a good author who wants to include bdsm in their work will take into consideration the way the characters involved are likely to communicate, but also the cultural context in which they exist. two men in regency england do not know what a safeword is, traffic lights aren't a thing, and they may not want to have a difficult conversation spelling out what they want, because they're men in england in a period before therapy. they will talk around it, or come up with something in the moment that suits the need. a real example from kj charles' a seditious affair, which i consider the best use of bdsm in a historical romance: the dom commands the sub to hold onto the bed rail while he fucks him, and if he lets go, he stops. or another example, these characters don't usually refer to each other by name. referring to the top by his name makes him stop. these are things that naturally make sense based on their relationship, and would make sense for two men in their circumstances and point in history. they do have some conversations about it, but only after they've opened up to each other enough that they'd have a real conversation about it at all, and now it's a vehicle to show the growth of their relationship.

a weaker writer who wants to include bdsm in their work might include the rules for safe bdsm without thinking about their context. another real example, which i won't name, is a romantasy between a big gruff laborer and the twinky wizard he works for. they've been antagonizing each other, and it all comes to a head in the stables, and the laborer is finally going to give it to the wizard... when he stops to establish a safeword for spanking him.

folks, i do not believe a curmudgeonly old laborer in a feudal fantasy world understands a safeword. i do not need him to understand safewords, and i don't need that conversation to happen at all. i am ready to see the wizard get spanked, the wizard is horny to get spanked. we are all on the same page. but the author has pulled the brakes for the sake of a conversation they think is necessary, but truly isn't. if your goal is to show that he cares underneath the spanking, show that during the aftercare, show it in how he's considerate of how hard he hits, or where he hits, or have him stop if the wizard says 'stop'. like a normal person would. you only need a safeword if 'stop' is not actually 'stop', and if this is your first time having sex with this person, and you care, you are going to stop if they say stop. and if the characters aren't even going to USE the safe word you make them establish, what are we accomplishing? if this element of the story never comes back, and only exists in this scene, why is it there?

i guess this is a long way around to saying eroticism is intrinsic to context and character, and if your eroticism feels like you layered it on top of the characters, rather than built it from their behavior, you're not doing it right.

[sasquapossum]

Have you heard of Red Caesar?

It's pretty terrifying. These people literally believe that the US's "experiment" with democracy is over, and that the only way back to national greatness (which means something different for them than it does for sane people) is for a "strong leader" to take unilateral control. In other words, a dictatorship. They'd have to try pretty damn hard to sound any more like Benito Mussolini - the person who actually created the term "fascist" and wore it with pride.

They have a particular time frame in mind. They're gathering funds and supplies and support. They are actively working to make this happen. In a country that wasn't already corrupted by fascism, some of them would have been charged with seditious conspiracy by now.

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

let's be more positive about books for a while! here are some queer historical romance novels that i've been rereading recently that i think do something interesting with making characters feel historical in their mindset and worldview, but are also fairly progressive, diverse queer books that are, frankly, a delight to read

this is by no means exhaustive and to be honest i could put almost anything by cat sebastian or kj charles on a list like this so this is purely the highlights of what i've reread in the past week to take my mind off work, and why i think they're interesting from this specific angle

cat sebastian, the ruin of a rake (turners #3)

this is technically the third in a trilogy but they're only very loosely connected, so you don't need to have read the others if you don't care about knowing who all the background characters are. the others are also good though

why it's interesting: features a character who has had to painstakingly study and learn the rules of polite society in order to claw his way up to respectability, and is now deploying those skills to help another man repair his reputation. shows the complexity of those rules, the social purposes they serve, and the work that goes into living by them, as well as the consequences of breaking them. also explores some of the financial side of aristocracy, and features a character with chronic illness (recurring malaria following repeated infections as a child in india) whose feelings about his illness are very relatable without feeling overly modern.

kj charles, society of gentlemen series.

this trilogy is closely related plot-wise and best read in order. all three explore cross-class romances and characters struggling to reconcile their political views and personal ethics with their desires, in the aftermath of the peterloo massacre, with a strong focus on the political role of the written word. first book is long-lost gentleman raised by seditionists / fashion-minded dandy teaching him to behave in society; second book is tory nobleman submissive / seditious pamphleteer dominant who've been fucking for a year without knowing the other's identity; third book is lord / valet and all the complicated dynamics of consent there with a generous side-helping of crime.

why they're interesting: close attention to the history of political printing and the impact of government censorship and repressive taxes on the freedom of the press; complex ideological disagreements that aren't handwaved as unimportant; examination of trust, consent, and social responsibility across class differences and in situations with problematic power dynamics; most of the characters are progressive for their time without feeling like they have modern attitudes. the second book, a seditious affair, deals most strongly with the revolutionary politics side of things, but all tackle it to some extent.

kj charles, band sinister.

look i'm probably biased because this might be my favourite KJC. it's a standalone about a pair of siblings: the sister wrote a gothic novel heavily inspired by their mysterious and scandalous neighbour whose older brother had an affair with their mum (causing scandal); the brother is a classics nerd. the sister breaks her leg on a ride through their neighbour's estate and can't be moved until she heals so they both have to stay at the house and find out if the neighbour is really as scandalous as he seems.

why it's interesting: discussion of atheism and new ideas about science and creation (very shocking to the brother, who is the viewpoint character); details of agriculture and estate management via main LI's attempt to grow sugar beet, as well as the economics of sugar (including references to slavery); "unexpurgated" latin and greek classics as queer reference points for a character who nevertheless hasn't quite figured out he's queer; material consequences of society scandal

bonus: wonderful sibling dynamic and a diverse cast including a portugese jewish character, which i don't think i've seen in a book before

i will add to this list as i continue to reread both of their backlists! (bc i have read them all enough times and in close enough succession that they blur together in my head unless i've read them very recently)

[mollywog]

Thinking about how rebellious Mr. Everdeens was. I read going beyond the fence to hunt and trade as more about necessity and survival than rebellion,

But openly singing seditious songs around town?

“Not you. Your father. He heard him singing it one day when he came to trade at the bakery. Peeta was small, probably six or seven, but he remembered it because he was specially listening to see if the birds stopped singing,” says Haymitch. “Guess they did.”

Passing them down to your children?

I was home from a day in the woods with my father. Sitting on the floor with Prim, who was just a toddler, singing “The Hanging Tree.” Making us necklaces out of scraps of old rope like it said in the song, not knowing the real meaning of the words.

[pattern-recognition]

submitting this image on canvas for a research project tomorrow and nothing else

i love sociology because i can really just write something vaguely maoist and get at least an 85 on an essay while barely thinking of the rubric question

[slowd1ving]

I. ON THE TOPIC OF BELONGING.・゜DAN HENG

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

NEXT PART

Dan Heng has many words that sum up his existence. 

If you ask the denizens of the Luofu, they’d scorn the likeness he bears with scathing vitriol. After all, his continued existence is an insult to the shared moral codex that all Xianzhou natives and their coexisting long-life species hold dear. The very ship he stands on knows of the sins of Dan Feng; it is intimately entwined with the recent history of the Luofu. Though he can barely remember the hazy memories of his past life, the marks left behind by his clawed hands are still tender; so much so that the phantasmal imprints of his crime pulses beneath flesh like a second heart. 

Hence, seditious and traitorous would be amongst their most polite of adjectives used to describe his person. 

If you ask the IPC employees whose spaceships he temporarily boarded, they would find it hard to remember such an unremarkable man in the first place. He’s not a criminal when you remove the man from Luofu. He’s simply another unwelcome—though this is concealed, poorly, behind brief nods and strained smiles—passenger, another burden to kick out at the closest planetary cluster. Though, as long as he works hard, he earns his keep. 

Hence, diligent would be one of the only adjectives few of them attribute to him. The rest simply don’t remember, or perhaps they don’t care. Both are equally probable. 

If you ask the Masked Fools with whom he unfortunately entangled his journey with, they’d remark it a pity that he still had his memory intact from when they tried to wrench it from him. No, they will not elaborate. He’s unlike them, as he is unlike the aforementioned IPC. He’s too solemn. He’s too uptight. He doesn’t smile. His face is as impassive as the alabaster and bronze masks they don. 

Hence, amongst a repertoire of appellations that really all mean the same thing, it is serious that is the gist derived from their babble. 

All these, when compiled together with pins and red strings on a corkboard, are integrated back into a singular general impression: unapproachable. 

He’s left alone in the Shackling Prison; the guards may jeer or insult him, but they never come too close. He’s left alone on the IPC spaceships; there’s just something about him that makes it easy to delegate more menial work unto him, but never to actually connect person-to-person. And he’s left alone amidst the madness of the Masked Fools; though they force him to attend those deranged lectures, there’s no interest other than superficial for him. 

Friends he vaguely recalls are shaped in his mind as though someone coloured outside their lines: blurred, messy, and utterly intangible. He has no points of connection that can really describe him at present, therefore he relies on others’ assumptions to gauge his character. 

Unapproachable. 

In that crimson strand of thinking, you’re similar to the idea of Dan Heng. Though, pinned neatly to the corkboard on a yellow sticky note, it’s not so much as that’s the impression you give, more like the default word attributed to somebody who isn’t present enough for any other impression to exist. 

“Where’s your next stop?”

There’s a woman standing before him with vivid scarlet cascading from the crown of her head and down her shoulders like a waterfall. It coils so familiar, yet so different, to the ‘red’ that pursues him in both the waking and dream world. He’s taken aback, blinking with surprise as his gaze focuses and refocuses just past her to spot an erudite man some distance away; the shine of his black-framed glasses glints as though in encouragement. 

His first experience with the Astral Express is wholly foreign to the concept he’s been creating of his travels: free, but with an unpleasant weariness that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. There’s a certain flavour, a certain brand of loneliness that comes with always running away from a pursuer as unrelenting as that man. 

“...Haven’t decided yet,” he answers carefully. He’s covered with rust; metallic red as obvious as her hair, all from the monsters that he’d slain ungraciously while travelling this star-studded route. Cloud Piercer is still swinging in his palms: a pendulum to decide her fate. Are you another enemy?

Dan Heng is tired. 

“Would you like to board our ‘Express’?”

It’s the first time he’s heard of the name. Maybe he’s felt the whispers of the ‘Nameless’ back on the Luofu, perhaps from his alleged genesis in the Shackling Prison as he underwent a partial rebirth, but there’s nothing substantial to hold on to.

He’s silent, though the spin of his spear as it warps back into empty space betrays the cogs whirring as he mulls the question over. 

Behind her is a train, rather than a conventional starship. It’s a hulk made from gleaming metal; though that isn’t what captures his attention. There is no carefully-calibrated frequency that melds seamlessly with the stars—but a beating, mechanical heart that whirs with a quality of life he’s never quite heard before. It’s rough, unpolished—a far cry from the almost soundless starskiffs he watched back on the Luofu—but it’s precisely that which captivates him. Later, he thinks the concept of trailblaze rather suits the distinct form of this metal beast. Though he’s been deemed unapproachable by the masses, something tells him that this is an opportunity to lessen the distance he surrounds himself with, through sheer willpower rather than cautious responses. 

Dan Heng ultimately ends up going with the woman named Himeko and the gentleman introduced as Welt Yang. 

An archivist and a guard. He forms the words in his mouth. Guard tastes familiar, yet archivist is something he’s not quite come across. Regardless of the unpleasant connotation with the former, both represent a change in being a ‘fugitive’ to being somebody with a ‘role’ in this endless universe.

He boards the train, and though both conductor and the floors seep carmine, they too don’t dredge up the haunting echo of his living nightmares. Pom-Pom isn’t particularly surprised by his sudden appearance—it makes him wonder just how frequently the Express picks up stray dogs like himself. 

Three existences—Himeko, Pom-Pom, and Mr. Yang—are the only souls he’s seen on the train in his long time of two hours on this train, which is why it’s a surprise when Himeko tells him to greet the fourth and final Nameless. In fact, though they spoke of many trivialities and complexities that surrounded the journey he was about to undertake, this is the first time he’s heard your name being mentioned. 

He’s the other mechanic who works with Himeko, Dan Heng reminds himself as he takes cautious steps towards the locomotive. Your room of legend is situated nearby—he says legend and mythical as it’s approaching three hours and he’s yet to feel your presence whatsoever. 

There’s a door that must be yours. It’s not confirmed, but there’s heavy music he can faintly feel through the wood; periodic vibrations and bass that is punctuated by either the grating of metal, the rustling of paper, or an incredulous string of curses he can’t quite transcribe. He knows all this as he’s been standing with his hand poised into a fist for the past three minutes, and not one of them has endowed him with the audacity to actually knock. He knows your name, he now knows your voice (though still not much of it)—yet the task of finally coming face-to-face with you is rather daunting now that the last steps of becoming a Nameless are finally upon him. 

Before he can finally allow his knuckles and the wood to get intimately acquainted, the door slides open and soft amber light wafts into the dark hallway. 

There’s you, looking entirely out of it as you slowly yawn with a spanner clenched tight in your fist. There’s various splotches of tar-like grease on the old hoodie you sport, while your tool shares the same fate. He takes a glance into the slice of room he’s been afforded the view of, and it matches his expectations: crumpled blueprints on a large desk, something large and complicated that he doesn’t even want to attempt naming, and finally the radio that’s currently churning out metal—aptly enough. 

As you shuffle slightly closer, he can smell the oil and metal and the acerbic scent of energy drinks emanating from you. He can faintly hear your slow breathing, see the flutter of your lashes as your eyelids fight to stay open. You look past him with a gaze that reminds him vaguely of a cadaver; something half-dead and barely on this plane of existence. It’s unlike the hatred he gets from the Luofu, or the persistent ignorance from the IPC, or even the mockery afforded to him from the Masked Fools. 

It’s unlike the warm curiosity of Himeko, the polite neutrality of Mr. Yang, or the concerned amiability of Pom-Pom. It’s so utterly dispassionate and glazed-over that he fights the urge to wonder whether you can even see him. Whether you’re actually breathing or if it’s just a perfunctory rising and falling of your chest. 

He knows all this because the time elapsed from the two of you simply standing has just gone past a minute. A minute of silence—though this one isn’t in honour of anybody, it’s just a rather awkward endeavour. In fact, he’s had so much time to become acquainted with this silence that he’s used basically all five senses to commit you to memory. The background music makes it all the more uncomfortable; it’s constantly reminding him of this elevator atmosphere that has yet to dissipate. 

“I’m Dan Heng,” he attempts after the quiet becomes unbearable. Introduce yourself then leave. It’s the first time he’s felt so intimidated. He understands, then, the implication that comes with somebody being ‘unapproachable’. It’s not just the distance one feels from somebody else. This is different. This is someone barely tied to this space. 

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some phantasm there are only myths about. 

You mumble something incoherent. He cannot, for the life of him, figure out the words, or even the very tone you’re using. Are you asking him to clarify? Are you telling him your name? Are you telling him to screw off and never appear before you again? All are equally plausible. 

“The new guard… the new archivist,” he tries once more. You peer at him with such exhausted eyes that he trails off in the last two syllables. 

He’s known you for the span of three minutes, but the chess piece you move next in this exchange both baffles him yet entirely fits your character. You nod once in brief acknowledgement, then shut the door back with a neat click. 

It’s a final full-stop in this train-wreck of a play. Were the Masked Fools to see this, he thinks, there would probably be a perception shift of him into a poor maddening idiot.  

It’s not a particularly good impression, but the easy neutrality with which you act with makes it excruciating to even gauge how well that went. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. 

Best not to question it. 

Dan Heng goes back to where the other three wait—head hanging a bit lower out of shame rather than relief that he’s finally, officially becoming a Trailblazer. It’s bittersweet, but he supposes you just can’t change everything about yourself immediately—and despite the puzzling interaction, that was a nod of acknowledgement, was it not?

“How was it?” He pretends he doesn’t see the knowing glint in Himeko’s golden irises, and outright ignores the light smile on Mr. Yang. 

“Fine.” His dry response only elicits laughter from Pom-Pom and the crimson woman; clearly, they are well-aware of both your disposition and his blatant lie. 

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite,” she reassures him— as though that’s supposed to be consolation— and hands him a steaming mug of something dark and almost viscous. He takes it, too fixated on her words to actually fathom what exactly is in the ‘drink’. “He’s awake at odd hours, and though the maintenance of the Astral Express is easier due to the influx of technology, he’s constantly planning out updates for it alongside me. So that’s just his normal state during the day, if he even manages to get up.”

Fascinating. The concept of night and day doesn’t exist when you’re constantly plunged in darkness, so choosing to work when everyone typically sleeps feels more intentional than not. 

She sighs. “The kid needs to take a break more—but both Argo-I and the Herta Space Station exchange new gadgets with him—and if it makes him happy, what can I do?”

It’s an odd sort of conversation. Though it’s off-putting to talk about you without your presence, he gets the feeling that she’s trying to connect him with you so he can understand you a little better. 

That’s decidedly strange. 

“I promise you that he’s a sweet–he’s not a bad kid,” she corrects herself, and Pom-Pom doubles over. “He just finds small talk and company unproductive while he’s working.”

None of the others he’s met have attempted to make him understand. But though your eyes aren’t full of the abhorrence he’s grown accustomed to, the utter lack of passion in your eyes doesn’t feel welcoming, either. 

He takes a sip of the hot drink, and immediately grimaces. 

It’s bitter. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

Dan Heng has a lot of words to encapsulate his experience on the Express so far. 

If he had to describe his assigned room, it would be overwhelming. The interstellar lexicon cannot come up with an adjective more apt. That room is much too big, much too disorientating for someone accustomed to only staying temporarily. He supposes it’ll be the same for this part of his journey too.

So, he buries himself in his work to make the most of his impermanent tenure. Quite literally—he sleeps in the data archives, soothed to a restless sleep each cycle by the incessant hum of the computers as they whir and log new information. Dan Heng sees binary sequences—ceaseless 0 and 1s—blinking as soon as he closes his eyelids. And for once, he actually enjoys the work handed to him, as it is wholly his job and not somebody’s leftovers. 

If he had to describe the Express in all its grandeur, he’d assign impressive to its impression. It’s massive—so much so that it seems to have its own gravitational pull. Everything on it is impressive, from its facilities, to its technology, and especially its close-to-luminal speed. Never over, but it feels like it sometimes with how many space systems he observes through the parlor windows. 

It makes him appreciate just how much work goes into powering something this well-oiled; in his week of being here, there’s been no signs of anything remotely wrong with the maintenance. The Express’ exodus from various nebulae is smoother than even the ships of the IPC, and only Aeons knew how much credits they pushed towards their vessels. 

If he had to describe the Trailblazers, there’d be two distinct lines of thought he’d follow. For Himeko, the colours residing within her lines would now include mischievous and erudite. For Mr. Yang, he can slowly recognise the tang of sarcastically humorous and compassionate. And for Pom-Pom, the dictionary has expanded to somewhat intimidating. It’s nothing too scary, but his intuition implores him to not provoke the conductor, no matter how friendly they seem. 

That’s the first group. They differ from the second group in the regard that the impressions they give are gradually becoming more nuanced.  

The second group contains only the other mechanic. 

In all his seven cycles of inhabiting the Express, he’s taken numerous walks through the long vessel. He’s sat in the parlor learning how to play chess from Mr. Yang; he’s observed as Himeko makes her coffee in the kitchen; and he’s taken a glance into the helm where Pom-Pom performs the routine checks in the locomotive. 

The point is, he’s interacted with these three individuals more in 168 system hours than he has with the hundreds of people he’s met over the past few months. 

Except for you. 

You’re not at the helm, you’re not in the kitchen, and you’re certainly not in the parlor. 

Your impression remains unapproachable, simply because you’re just not there.

Sure, he pauses in front of your room while he passes through the hallway—in the vain hope that the door might slide open like it did all those days ago—but nothing changes. There’s always some form of music vibrating through the walls, the sounds of clanging and machinery, and the rustling of blueprints. 

If anything’s changed, it’s your even more expansive array of imprecations. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard so many various languages learned, all for the sole purpose of formulating long strings of curses that would make even Xianzhou pilots wince. 

This continues on into the second week, and a little into the third. At this point, he’s growing frighteningly accustomed to feeling the comforting hum of the train as it speeds through space and time. It’s growing familiar, and he vaguely wonders how long it will be before you show your face again. 

It’s been 387 system hours since he’s started living here. 

The archives aren’t particularly organised; it makes sense considering how often Mr. Yang and Himeko take calls, holographs and generally administrate the Express. Hence, there’s no one to methodically sort out the extensive reaches of the Data Bank. And though most of it is digital, the information is infuriatingly hard to puzzle through as it’s not exactly uploaded with a set system. 

It’s only natural that he spends a good portion of the day marooned in the room stacked high with monitors and computers. 

However, he does take the time to have breakfast and socialise with his colleagues. Every morning, he’s chased into the dining car by an insistent Pom-Pom; somehow, you’re spared the intense wrangling, and he can never spot you amidst the faces. 

After the meal, he spends a half-hour or so in the parlor, either playing chess with Mr. Yang or discussing the vast plains of knowledge Himeko has. Though both you and her are this train’s mechanics, there’s such a stark difference between how present she is and how absent you are. Sometimes, he wonders whether you’re really corporeal and not just a figment of his imagination. 

“He does come out of his room,” Mr. Yang comments, seemingly unruffled by the empty seat next to him at the breakfast table. “Currently, I think he’s collaborating with the Herta Space Station engineers on an agricultural machine for one of the systems we visited a while back.”

Himeko takes a long swill of her coffee. Dan Heng almost misses its bitter flavour. “While I’m typically a part of diplomatic efforts when we make various stops, he likes to help the people recover from the effects of the Stellaron where he can. In this sense, we’re both engineers outside the Express too—one for theory, one for practice.”

Ultimately, he’s gotten used to the routine. It’s a mundanity that feels like luxury compared to the turbulence of his travels across the stars. 

“—of course, we’ll take it into consideration after we start—”

“—you don’t entirely trust them, do you? After the stunt they pulled with the steel, where they fucked up its tensile strength and the parts simply crumpled—”

He can only hear snippets of the conversation in the parlor as he makes his way from the archives to the parlor door. 

“Himeko, I don’t suppose you know whether Argo-II would be willing to supply us with their bronze? It’s impervious to pretty much anything, but negotiating for it is a bitch and a half.”

Dan Heng freezes from where he’s about to slide the door open. That voice. He’s only heard brief echoes of it; never full sentences. It’s not Himeko’s rich drawl, nor Mr. Yang’s clipped cadence, nor the bubbly chatter of Pom-Pom. It’s rougher, colder, but so utterly complete. 

He presses his palm to the wood with bated breath; you’ll dissipate just like that if he walks in, won’t you?

You’re sitting in one of the low chairs around the chess board, idly tilting the white bishop this way and that while you ponder your next move. It’s clear your attention isn’t on the game (nor is Himeko’s, really); by the looks of it, this is ‘damn’ important. 

It’s the first time he sees you clearly. Your eyes, which looked so cadaverous in the lowlight of your dim room, hold a lot more depth than he thought he’d see. They’re not shining, exactly, but the piercing glint of them makes them appear so full of resolution that he wonders how he could mistake them for anything but. 

Your two rooks are on opposing corners, trapping the king in his crumbling castle. 

“After the fiasco with the Migrides Embassy, I don’t think we have a choice.” Himeko eyes the board, then your wavering bishop. It’s still your move, but she doesn’t tip the king to surrender, even with her loss staring right back at her. 

“Checkmate.” It’s a final statement—there’s not a speck of gloating nor elation in your tone, only a factual collection of syllables that marks this conversation to a close. Your gaze is still fixed on the pieces: fallen and surviving alike. 

“What’s going on?” 

He doesn’t expect you to answer. He doesn’t even expect you to look up at him, but you do. Himeko turns towards him, but she’s Himeko and he knows she’ll give him her attention. You, on the other hand—you’re the unpredictable variable he hasn’t quite yet figured out in your mess of 0s and 1s. 

“We got screwed over by our new supplier of astral steel,” you summarise laconically; rough burrs rush through the air, rather than Himeko’s . “For the plating on the carriages and the front—like the cowcatcher—and none of the 300-odd parts even come close to the standard modulus that astral steel should be for the G-force we travel at, while the Assembly on Migrides has gone radio-silent.”

Honestly, it’s a wonder his jaw hasn’t unhinged completely. 

“Actually, why don’t you bring him up to speed in the entirety while I speak to Welt about a potential visit to both the Argo and Migrides clusters?” 

He expects you to reject her proposition, and it seems more and more plausible when you let out a long sigh and drag your hand over your face irritably. 

Dan Heng’s feet are already beginning to turn him back to the archives when it happens. 

“Sure.” And you surprise him once again. 

Himeko leaves with a tenser gait than normal. It’s totally due to that, that he’s hovering awkwardly by her vacant chair—and totally not due to the fact he’s been caught off guard for the nth time. 

“Sit,” you invite, deftly setting up the board once more. “Do you play?”

Do you play?— as though you’ve talked to him before, as though the two of you already know each other. He’s struggling to even process the question, let alone your intentions behind asking it. 

Forget unapproachable. You’re unpredictable, in every facet of that word.  

“I played similar games—” In prison, he leaves out. “—and I’ve been playing with Mr. Yang.”

A wooden piece raps against wooden board— clack, clack. “Your move, then.”

Pawn to e4. 

“Standard start,” you note, rolling a pawn of your own as though you’re handing a tool. And, he supposes, you very much are. “I don’t know if Himeko’s told you, but part of her and my job is doing routine updates when they’re called for.”

“I am aware, yes,” he hardly breathes. 

“Good,” you comment dryly. Your pawn is set directly facing his own. “The astral steel supplier that we occasionally source parts and raw ore from has been cut off by the damned IPC, about two months ago.”

He silently moves his bishop to e5. 

“Welt’s been teaching you by the book.” Your knight is placed in his line of capture, but the solid wall behind it makes it a pointless sacrifice to even think about it. “So we switch our suppliers to the Migrides Embassy, since their reputation is fairly good in terms of ship parts. Then, those bastards send us corrupted astral steel.”

The table creaks beneath your incensed fingers. 

“I spent over two fucking weeks painstakingly measuring the strain and stress modulus for every one of those three-hundred and forty-one pieces, before testing it in at the maximum velocity that can be reached by the Express, with some leeway,” you scoff, eyes trailing as he places his own knight to guard his pawn. “All failures. None of my holographs, not a single one of my messages went through to either the Assembly or the Embassy.”

He plays by the book, as you put it, but so do you—matching his pace so he is still allowed room for mistake. 

“Our only option left is negotiation with Argo–II for their bronze, which is better than astral steel for its durability—but they’re extremely stingy with it.” You capture his struggling pawn with your queen. The board is a lot sparser than at the beginning. His castle, too, has started its steady crumble. 

“Or attempt to buy from the IPC, but like hell I’m walking into a deal with them. Scammers, the lot of them—they’re definitely going to milk their new monopoly for all its worth.”

The game is marching to its inevitable conclusion. 

“Is there the possibility that something’s direly wrong on Migrides?” Dan Heng ventures. 

“Good theory, but it’s just financial troubles. Their tourism is declining, and so their stockpile of damaged steel was sold to us at regular price,” you sigh. “Trouble is, their receipt had a virus so ridiculously undetectable that it destroyed both it and the copies it made. Mr. Yang could probably reconstruct it easily, but it just goes to show it won’t be easy getting the cash back.”

It’s not exactly the amiability of the other three. Of all his minutes in being in your presence, the largest fraction has been filled with your complaints, while the other tiny proportion is filled with awkward silence and your incoherent replies. 

He tilts his king flat on the board. 

Surrender. 

The first impression wasn’t that great (and if he’s being honest, neither is the second one). But there’s a tiny crack through the alabaster, and it contains small trivia and adjectives like good at chess and quite puzzling and eloquent in his complaints. 

That should be in its own special brand of ‘progress’, he thinks.

The bitter feeling subsides, ever so slightly.  

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[howlingday]

A Most Unusual Unit

Good morning, or rather, good evening, "Nightshade". Excellent work on your last assignment. Thanks your efforts, the councilman has lived to see another day, much to the great benefit of Vale. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I have another assignment for you already. Your new target is the leader of the Spiders organization, "Little Miss" Charlotte Malachite. She is a grave threat to peace between Vale and Mistral. Your mission is to get close to her and gain any information that may be related to seditious activities.

In order to do this, you will have to marry and have a child.

Blake: (Spits out her coffee, Coughs) EXCUSE ME?!

Little Miss is a reclusive woman and is notably suspicious of others. At this point, she operates almost entirely behind the scenes. Her only public appearances of late have been her attendance at the elite private school her daughters attend. These events act as informal get-togethers for the upper crust of society and the lowest of low in the criminal underworld. You are to enroll your child at this school and gain entry to these events. However, admission deadlines are approaching fast. YOU'VE ONLY GOT ONE WEEK.

Blake: (Rips encoded-cypher paper in half) THEY EXPECT ME TO HAVE A CHILD IN SEVEN DAYS?! (People stare at her, Ahem!) Excuse me...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blake: Listen up, little girl.

Penny: I'm Penny!

Blake: Listen up, Penny. From now on, you are my child. As far as everyone knows, however, you have always been my child. Understood?

Penny: Understood!

Blake: You will address me as "Mother," as the elites do.

Penny: Mama!

Blake: Very well.

Old Woman: What an adorable girl~.

Blake: Thank you. We're the Belladinas. We just moved in.

Penny: I'm Penny, and I have always been Mama's child!

Old Woman: Huh?

Blake: (Thinking) You don't need to say that!.

Penny: Mama, I want a silenced pistol~!

Blake: If we see one on sale.

Old Woman: What a strange family...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaune: (Answers phone) Hello, Arc residence.

Jaune: Oh, Saph!

Saphron: (Via phone) How are you doing, baby bro?.

Jaune: Good. Everything's good. I'm still hard at work in Vale!

Saphron: Still as weird as ever. Don't make me worry about you.

Jaune: You don't have to sound so mean about it! And I am not weird!

Saphron: Jaune, when are you going to get married? You find a good lady friend yet?

Jaune: (Thinking) Not this again...

Saphron: Listen, I might be offered a big promotion here soon, but that'd mean I'd be too busy to look after you. I'm not gonna say no right off the bat, but it doesn't feel right for me to abandon you in the big city. Like I always tell ya, I'm forever grateful for you taking care of me all this time, and that's why I want to make sure you're happy.

Jaune: I know, Saph. Thank you.

Saphron: I think I know some cuties out here in Argus. Maybe I could put in a good word for you?

Jaune: Ah! N-No! You don't need to do that! A-Actually, I'm heading to a party this weekend... and I'll be bringing someone!

Saphron: A girl?!

Jaune: Uh, y-yeah, I guess that's one way to describe her. So don't worry about me, okay?

Saphron: Alright. So, who's throwing this party? One of your co-workers?

Jaune: Mm-hm!

Saphron: Great! I'll have Pyrrha give me the full details on this girlfriend of yours!

Jaune: Eh?

Saphron: No offense, Jaune, but you can be pretty naive. I just want to make sure the girl you're digging isn't just digging into you, right?

Jaune: Uh, well-

Saphron: And I'm gonna hold off on this promotion until I know you're happy!

Jaune: Y-You don't need to-

Saphron: Can't wait to hear all about her, baby bro! Ciao~! (Click)

Jaune: (Hangs up, Pacing) What do I do?!. What do I do?!. I need to find a girlfriend now!. If Saph finds out I lied, she'll think there's something wrong with me!. Then she'll never get that promotion, and Terra'll be mad at me!. Adrian will never play with me again!.

Jaune: (Phone rings, Answers) Saph, listen! About what I said earlier, I was just joking! I-

Boss: (Via phone) Having family trouble?. That's unusual for you.

Jaune: Oh! Headmistress! I'm so sorry, I was-

Boss: Good evening. I have a client for you, Rusted Knight.

Jaune: (Eyes dim)

Boss: The Glass Unicorn. Room 1220.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaune: Excuse me.

Proprietor: Oh, hello again, Jaune! How can I help you?

Jaune: I'm going to a party tonight, so I need my slacks patched up ASAP. Er, if that's okay, of course.

Blake: (Flinches, Thinking) How did he get by without me noticing?!. Jaune... Hm... Right. Jaune Arc, 26 years old, never married, and never divorced. Parents deceased. Seven sisters, six dexeased, one surviving, couple years older. They're both ordinary civilians with nothing on their files. Maybe I'm getting sloppy-

Jaune: Um, miss? You've been staring at me since I came in here. Is there something I can help you with?

Blake: He sensed me watching him?!. How?!.

Blake: Oh, uh, no. I just thought... you were really cute. Excuse me for being rude.

Jaune: Wait, so... I'm good looking to you?

Blake: Um, yes?

Jaune: Miss-

Penny: Mama! I got measured! Huh? Who's she?

Blake: He's another customer, like us.

Jaune: (Thinking) I almost asked another man's wife on a date! I've heard stories of men being murdered for things like that. BUT THIS TIME, I'D BE THE ONE TO DO THE KILLING.

Penny: !

Jaune: No! I can't even fantasize about a thing so horrible! It's thoughts like those that'll expose me as an ASSASSIN.

Penny: (Thinking) A- A- A- A- ASSASSIN?!.

Blake: (Spy)

Jaune: (Assassin)

Penny: (Telepath, Starved for entertainment) SOOO COOOOL!.

Blake: I thought he'd make for a good fit for the husband role, but his intuition could threaten my mission.

Jaune: I thought she'd be able to pull off the girlfriend role, but I can't afford any kind of unnecessary bloodshed.

Penny: (Looks down, Covering her face) Oh, boo hoo hoo! I am so sad about Papa!

Blake: P-Penny?! What are you-?!

Penny: I just miss my papa so very, very, very much! If only he could see me in my pretty dress!

Jaune: Oh, is your husband away?

Blake: Ah... You see... My husband actually passed a few years ago. I've been working hard to support my daughter as a single mother.

Jaune: Then... Then no one could try to kill me if I asked her!.

Jaune: Um, excuse me...

[eugenedebs1920]

When I hear the pro-Fascism movement counter the seditious acts taken on Jan 6th with the George Floyd movement after his murder it makes me sick.

One was perpetrated by a group of Americans, antagonized by the words of president, who knew he was lying, about a “rigged” election. An election where 60 plus lawsuits were filed to determine any fraud or irregularities of the counts. Where time after time after time they were thrown out of court due to a lack of evidence whatsoever. Where recounts and audits happened in every state in question. All with the same results. There was no fraud. Jan 6th was an insurrection led on by someone who knew the truth, that he lost. But, constitution be damned, he would retain power. He lied and betrayed every American. He especially betrayed those who he had storm the capital over a lie. Ghost gossip if you would. (See previous posts) Some of those people still locked up from the lies this man told. The sedition he committed.

The other was a boiling point on a, far too long, suppressed and targeted, group of Americans. Americans who were tired of watching their fellow black Americans, needlessly being killed at the hands of those enshrined to protect the community. A group of Americans who watched as George Floyd gasped his last words, recorded for all to see, in front of a group of people, “I can’t breathe”. I can’t breathe were George Floyd’s last words. How could you not be upset by this violence, how could you not be disturbed, regardless of your race, this was wrong, this was murder, this was happening everywhere, all the time, to proportionately one race. Violence is never the answer and should be avoided at all costs. This cannot be condoned. Yet this violence sprung from violence projected on to a sect of society. A marginalized peoples who said ENOUGH!! Although it had its violent aspects it was about justice. It was about accountability. It was about equality.

The two are not the same. One was based on a lie.

One was a reaction to a murder.

[softlysilverfountainsfall]

"But no true Man nor Elf yet free / would ever speak that blasphemy"

Beren and Finrod are willing to blow their cover right in front of Sauron himself rather than repeat these words:

"Death to light, to law, to love! / Cursed be moon and stars above! / May darkness everlasting old / that waits outside in surges cold / drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun! / May all in hatred be begun / and all in evil ended be / in the moaning of the endless Sea!"

So...how do the elves perform this part of the Lay of Lethian? Because these lines are from the Lay, and the elves must sing and perform the Lay fairly often since it's one of their most beloved stories.

I find it difficult to believe that they would willingly and frequently repeat the blasphemous and seditious words that Finrod and Been were willing to lose their lives not to repeat just for a song (however important that song might be). If nothing else, it would be very disrespectful to the heroes they are trying to immortalize who did in fact die in large part because they blew their cover by not repeating those words.

So, my theory is that the words quoted above from the Lay of Leithian are sung and performed but are not actually the words that Sauron and the orcs used. In other words, I believe that the verse in the Lay is a toned-down or altered version (it is a little overdramatic, after all) of the actual oath to darkness because "no true Man nor Elf yet free / would ever speak that blasphemy"

[dimity-lawn]

From the Trial Account of Margaret Hicks for Royal Offences (seditious words), 8th April 1719. (Old Bailey Reference Number: t17190408-25)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"SENSATION CAUSED AS TIM BUCK EVIDENCE WAS REFUSED IN SEDITION TRIAL," Kingston Whig-Standard. March 7, 1934. Page 1. ---- One of the sensations of the trial of Rev. A. E. Smith at Toronto on a trial of seditious utterance was the exclusion of the evidence of Tim Buck, Communist leader, now serving a sentence in Kingston Penitentiary. Buck was brought to Toronto for the case and was placed on the witness stand for the defence. After he had answered one question in which he stated he was shot at in his cell in the Kingston prison his evidence was excluded after a lengthy battle between counsel and prosecution. The layout shows: Left, Tim Luck as he arrived at the court to appear for Smith; below, the jury being escorted from their hotel, where they have been locked up under guard: centre, C. J. Stokes, a witness for the defence, who was at the meeting wherein Smith is alleged to have uttered seditious words; centre (right) is Chief Justice Rose, while extreme right shows Rev. A. E. Smith appearing on the stand in his own defence,

[chiropteracupola]

I would LOVE to hear about assorted flintlock fortress and kissing the homies 2: bro hookup

FLINTLOCK FORTRESSSSSS!! because we haven't talked about this one in a while I shall give it a reintroduction -- this is @dxppercxdxver's and my yearslong project of putting the team fortress men in the 1770s-1790s and seeing what they do. so far this has included such fun activities such as 'we give everyone smallpox.' anyway here's our engineer heading north in search of his favorite seditious pamphleteer.

“I can fix that, if you’ll give me a hand.” “Think you can? Well, have at it, then,” said the carter, and Daniel Conagher knelt in the rutted road and put his hand to the stuck wheel. Not a broken axle, or a spoke put awry, but something in the mechanism gone wrong, something splintered and needing replacement. That was well enough — Daniel had mended wagons before, and with the carter there to be another hand to him, they two were hauling up the wagon from the ditch where it had lain slanted. “Turnabout’s fair play,” said the carter, swiping away sweat from beneath his hat. “I can’t pay you, but I can take you as far as Wilmington, if you’re going north by this road.” And he stretched out his hand to Daniel, and Daniel took it, and sat beside the carter on the bench as the road rolled on through forest and fen and farmland, up toward the city. Wilmington was a fine fair city, and Daniel found work soon enough, as clever young men often do in port towns. But the docks smelled of turpentine, barrels upon barrels of it, and with every surface he touched, his hand grew sticky with pitch and his clothing stained with tar. Besides, there was no work of the kind he wanted to do — no small things he might tinker and fiddle with, no type to set and no wheels to grease. At least there were the pamphlets, still — always with the little black unicorn stamped above the title, and always written in a way that made him want to jump up, and run, run, down the line of every word, until he found who it was at the end. It would be a long road yet before Daniel Conagher knew who had set the type and who had held the pen.

kissing the homies 2 is a sequel to a sharpe fic I've not yet finished, the entirety of which is likely going to be harris and cooper having bad mutually unsatisfying sex. and also harris wearing a dress.

“Well, if you wish it,” said Harris, a crooked smirk beginning to play about his mouth, and he took a deep drink from the flask still in his hand before he shoved it into Cooper’s hands. It was so sudden a movement that Cooper nearly dropped it, and would have wasted the rather soured rum for his clumsiness, if it were not for Perkins reaching to steady him. But he was looking up again, not paying attention to anything other than the sight of Harris with his hands all full of skirt, so that his hems were raised nearly to his knees.

[lotus-tower]

the thing is. why was shouyou in jail for so long before being executed. i mean it doesn't really matter. in the end the set-up is what it is in order to force gintoki to make that choice on the cliff that day because it's what the entire story is based around. and the details aren't really important enough to dedicate time to.

but theoretically. if you were to think about it. the only logical answer is that he was being kept as a normal political prisoner. oboro was there, guarded him, exchanged words with him. a tendoushuu member was on the cliff that day. it seems very odd on the surface. to make sense of it, what must have been the case is that oboro and the naraku were there simply because the naraku by definition serves the tendoushuu, and the tendoushuu were simply the main representatives of amanto power influencing the japanese government. so oboro, presumably, just didn't tell the rest of the naraku who yoshida shouyou really was.

that kid in takasugi's flashback told his dad about shouka sonjuku to get back at takasugi for humiliating him. there were already rumours about shouyou spreading seditious ideas. the authorities were going to arrest shouyou for political reasons.

oboro saw shouyou living happily with his juniors and got so jealous he burned the school down.

in truth, these two facts may be two interpretations of the same event, simultaneously true despite being completely different. but if you had to arrange the two as separate events on a timeline, the first one must have happened, well, first. shouyou says to takasugi at the end of that flashback: welcome to shouka sonjuku. perhaps they weren't actually chased away that time, or perhaps they moved elsewhere and moved into a new building. gintoki is the only character who ever appears in the flashbacks where shouyou is being led away, where the school is burning, but we don't have details about that because we don't need to.

shouyou's willing to come quietly as long as his students aren't hurt--he's willing to sit in a prison cell for years, and he's willing to be executed on that cliff for the same reason. it probably chafed at oboro more than anything, knowing how strong shouyou really was but seeing him just sit docilely in his cell. "i believed he would come back to me." but shouyou had been right in front of him for literal years, fully willing to talk to him if he wanted to talk. instead oboro had waited until shouyou died. until it was a "clean slate", until there would be no complications. the exact same trick they tried to pull years ago. did he cling to that, convincing himself it was right because of the echo it provoked in him? it worked the first time, right? (though the result of that first time was him being left out.)

oboro could've, at any moment, simply betrayed the naraku. on that cliff, who would've stopped him if he cut zura and takasugi's bonds and freed his sensei? but that would've meant gintoki winning, and he wanted to see gintoki lose.

the tendoushuu would've had no idea there was anything extraordinary about the execution taking place. they didn't know about shouyou's immortality, about the history of the naraku--the naraku themselves didn't know their founders had been one person. literally no one knew anything except for oboro, and he kept his silence. he kept silent to the people who threatened his sensei, but he also kept silent to his sensei himself, and he kept silent to his juniors for all those years. oboro is a character who suffers in silence to a truly ridiculous degree, all his best and worst intentions a secret to the rest of the world.

and then utsuro walked out of his funeral pyre and was immediately like... lmao. let's reveal myself to the tendoushuu. also i'm going to join the naraku as the leader again. you don't mind right

[thegreatobsesso]

Nine lines, nine people

Nine lines against the darkness, for anyone else living in America. Tagged by my dear friend @winterandwords.

Simon POV

“Yes. It’s important,” he said, unsure when exactly the realization cemented itself into his subconscious. “I don’t care what happens tomorrow, whether we liberate magician kind or end up on trial for seditious conspiracy. We’re gonna plan things like we’re, like we’re fucking living, like we’re…” “Unafraid,” Electra supplied, meeting him in the middle of the bridge. “Like nobody’s coming for us and everything’s alright.” “Yes. Yes! We’re gonna live,” he breathed, grateful to have her up his ass far enough to finish his sentences when words failed. “We’re gonna keep living until they kill us.”

@foxboyclit @andthebubbles @shadow-space-writes @itsthenovelteafactor @avrablake @pertinax--loculos @words-after-midnight @dontjudgemeimawriter @revenantlore

💙

[nancydrewwouldnever]

RANDOM MUSING: How to know Donald Trump has really never read a single thing on U.S. history: his new labeling of Kamala Harris as "worst Vice President ever."

Nah, old boy... that would be Aaron Burr. You know, the former Vice President who was arrested for treason (oh, don't want to think about that word, do you Donnie?) by Thomas Jefferson, the very President he had served. Why? Because Burr was literally trying to create an independent country in lands between Florida, the Louisiana Purchase and the Ohio Valley, where he was going to crown himself King. And all this after he shot and killed Alexander Hamilton. (Actually, he was Vice President after killing Hamilton, and I always wondered if Jefferson secretly loved that, having Hamilton's killer as his Vice President.)

Or, you know, we could also label your former ass-licker Mike Pence as that, because of his complete ineptitude and cosigning all your seditious talk.