#the birth of the author

[fabiansteinhauer]

Bild- und Rechtswissenschaft

1.

In den letzten Jahren kursierten in der deutschsprachigen Rechtswissenschaft einige Thesen, die sich für die Forschung zu dem Verhältnis von Bildern und Rechten meines Erachtens eher hinderlich herausgestellt haben. Das geht mit Thesen einher, die eine moderne Vorstellung von Ausdifferenzierung des Rechts auch medienhistorisch abstützen wollten. Das Recht und die Medien sollten ausdifferenziert sein. Es wurde unterstellt, dass die Differenzen zwischen Recht und anderen normativen Regimen so gründlich und eingerichtet differenziert sein sollten, wie Differenzen zwischen einem Bild und anderen Medien als dem Bild. Weil diese Literaturen systematisch argumentierten, blendeten sie systematisch solche Literaturen aus, die von 'gekreuzten' Medien ausgingen, also davon, dass es keine reine Medien, aber lauter übersetzte und ineinandergesetzte, also gekreuzte Medien gibt. Bilder werden von Texten gekreuzt, Texte von Bildern, das ist nur ein Beispiel.

2.

Zu den Ideen der Ausdifferenzierung gehören die Thesen von Klaus Röhl, der unterstellt hatte, dass Rechtswissenschaft im modernen Sinne eine Textwissenschaft gewesen sei. Mehr noch: Seine These lautete, die Rechtswissenschaft sei durch die Verdrängung von Bildern modern geworden. Nun aber käme es zu einer 'visuellen Zeitenwende'- Bilder würden vermehrt und mit größerer Bedeutung auftauchen und die Ausdifferenzierung des Rechts in Frage stellen. Wie hinderlich die These ist, zeigt sich insbesondere in Röhls Beitrag für das Handbuch der Rhetorik, wo er ausgehend von seiner These alle Gegenthesen und ausgerechnet die Literatur der Rhetorik ausblendet, um seine These plausibel zu halten. Ausgerechnet die Literaturen zur Rhetorik, die weder das Recht noch das Bild als ausdifferenziert betrachten, kommen dort nicht vor. So hat es eine durch und durch unrhetorische Auffassung in ein Handbuch der Rhetorik geschafft.

Thomas Vestings vierbändige Medientheorie des Rechts akzentuiert stark eine protestantische Sicht und eine Sicht der westlichen, amerikanischen Medienwissenschaften der Nachkriegszeit. Inzwischen hat Vesting in Folgeprojekten noch viel deutlicher gemacht, dass es ihm nicht um eine allgemeine Medientheorie des Rechts geht, sondern um eine Verteidigung liberaler Positionen, die er sich auch durch eine Loslösung von sog. kontinentalen Orientierungen, als durch einen weitern Take-Off verspricht. So kombiniert er aber wie gehabt Sicht auf historische Brüche und Differenzierungen mit der Vorstellung eines Vorsprungs und einer 'großen Anreicherung' (great Enrichment). Dank und durch bestimmter Medien soll danach dem Westen mehr als ein, immer wieder ein Take-Off gelungen sein. Seine Darstellung ist insoweit eine Theorie "großer Trennung", auch wo sie das Lob der Vernetzung anstimmt. Mit einem neuen Interesse an idealen Rechtsubjekten kippt Vesting nun von einem Extrem ins Andere. Spielt der Bilderstreit erst keine Rolle, wird nun die Bedeutung von einzelnen Bilder als Leitbildern eher überstrapaziert, was sich unter anderem auch in der Methode niederschlägt. Die besteht darin, Ideale und ihre Bilder zu zeigen, als Referenz in den Text einzuführen, aber nicht weiter zu kommentieren, geschweige denn etwas zu den Verfahren, den Produktionsbedingungen der Bilder zu sagen. Kurz gesagt schmücken die Bilder den Text, was vielleicht das Ideal dieser Bilder akzentuieren soll.

2.

Entgegen der Eindrücke, die man bei der Lektüre von Klaus Röhl oder Thomas Vesting bekommen kann, halte ich die Rechtswissenschaft selbst für eine historische Bildwissenschaft und auch für eine historische Medienwissenschaft. Mich überzeugen weder die Thesen über die Verdrängung der Bilder noch die Thesen, dass die Rechtswissenschaft nicht auch ihre Medialität reflektiert hätte. Meine Kritik mag unfair sein, denn anders als Röhl oder Vesting habe ich kein Interesse an Thesen und Theorien zum System. Mein Interesse richtet sich auf Details (auf kleine Objekte) und im Detail ist alles anders, wenn auch ich nicht "ganz anders" (Stolleis), nicht total anders. Ich verfolge keine Geschichte und Theorie der Ausdifferenzierung, keine Geschichte und Theorie des Dogmas großer Trennung, sondern eine Geschichte der fröhlichen Kreuzungen oder - wie Ino Augsberg sagt - stechender Versäumungen.

Ich glaube schon deswegen nicht, dass Bilder ins Recht eindringen, auch nicht, dass das Recht eine bildfreie Zone sei - schon weil es auch rechtliche Verfahren sind, die Bilder produzieren. Das Bild ist kein Objekt an sich, es ist ein umstrittenes und bestrittenes Objekt, und dabei sind juristische und juridische Verfahren schon dabei beteiligt, Objekte als Bild erscheinen zu lassen. Dass Bilder darüber hinaus auch Rechte (re-?)produzieren, das ist weder historische Ausnahme noch eine historische Regel, ist eine von zahllosen Konditionen, mit denen Rechte gebildet, vorstellbar, wissbar, visualisiert werden. In solchen Konditionen mag der Bilderstreit mal intensiver, mal weniger intensiv geführt werden- Aber dass es darin einen archimedischen Punkt gäbe, von dem aus gesichert sei, was ein Bild und was ein Recht sei, das scheint mir äußerst zweifelhaft.

3.

Eine der zahlreichen Gegenliteraturen zu den Thesen medialer und sozialer Ausdifferenzierung findet man in Jeffrey Hamburgers Buch über die Geburt des Autors. Wie fast jede Literatur aus diesem Feld schließt auch Hamburger an antike rhetorische Texte und an Horaz' ("Ut pictura poiesis") an. Dabei gilt sein Interesse insbesondere dem, was bei Genette der Paratext heißt. Ein Emblem am Anfang eines Buches, eine Gliederung zum Beispiel, das gehört zu den Paratexten. Hamburger interessiert sich aber vor allem für Codices des 12. Jahrhunderts - und für solche Illustrationen, die (anders als etwa das Schriftbild, der Buchstabe, die Zahl/Ziffer oder das Diagramm) auch im Alltagsverständis ohne weiteres den Status eines Bildes genießen.

[stevieschrodinger]

for @brazenliar

Part One Two Three

tw; childbirth

Eddie’s never moved this fast in his life; keys, phone, wallet, one quick mouthful of now cold chicken off his dinner plate, jacket, crocs off, sneakers on and he’s out the door.

Eddie carries Steve’s bag and the car seat, the towel rolled up under his arm, while Steve waddles along besides him.

He has to stop occasionally to take some deep breaths, obviously in pain, but it doesn’t take that long to get to the van. Eddie sets the towel on the passenger seat, rolling his eyes as Steve insist on it. Once he’s settled, Steve calls Robin and explains the new plan. Chrissy’s on her way apparently, so it shouldn’t be too long.

Eddie’s never been a nervous driver. Eddie’s never been in an accident that was his fault. He got rear ended one time and the bumper fell off, but that was about it. But now; this journey? Eddie’s driving like there’s a very full jug of gravy strapped into the passenger seat.

It’s a huge relief when they make it to the hospital. Eddie just throws the van into one of the spots out front; he’s not sure if he’s even allowed to park there but, honestly, fuck it. If he gets a fine he gets a fine.

Steve’s taking some awfully deep breaths and white knuckling his seatbelt strap, but otherwise seems okay. Just scents a little nervous mostly, a little scared, but Eddie can’t really blame him for that at all.

Once Eddie carefully wrangles Steve out of the van, he realizes Steve was absolutely right because, to be fair, Steve has left a fair old mark on the towel, so maybe Eddie will let him off for insisting.

Eddie leaves the carseat, figuring he can grab that in a bit – it leaves him a free hand for Steve to hold on to while they walk – and waddle – into the hospital.

They get directed to wait until a nurse can come down with a wheel chair, but in a sharp and really, really uncharacteristic show of temper, Steve snaps at the lady behind the desk that ‘he can walk, thank you very much. He is in labor, he is not incapable!’ And for the first time ever, Eddie scents the spicy scent of Steve's irritation.

She looks at Steve dubiously, but directs them in the right direction. Eddie is incredibly relieved that a nurse with a wheelchair meets them half way anyway, Steve still refuses to sit in it, so she follows along just in case she’s needed.

She seems really nice, from what Eddie can tell, and when Eddie looks over at her, she mouths a clear, ‘don’t worry,’ with a smile on her face, so Eddie figures this is all cool or normal or whatever.

Especially since Eddie has not a fucking clue what to expect here.

They make it to a set of doors with a keypad; the nurse lets them in. It makes a lot of sense, and gets rid of a worry Eddie didn’t even know he had; Steve’s going to be safe here. This bit of the hospital is extra secure for Steve and the pup.

“Eddie,” Steve stops walking, “there’s something-” and then Steve makes an unholy noise, doubling over as yet more bloody liquid gushes out of him. It’s like when the elevator doors open in the shining. Or that bit at the end of Carrie.

No it isn’t. It isn’t anywhere near that bad, it just looks like it is since there looks like there’s a lot of it and the fact that it's coming out of Steve probably makes it look worse than it really is.

Steve’s sneakers are going to be fucked, Eddie thinks absently, while having his hand near as damn snapped in half. There’s a nurse there with some sort of absorbent padding, thin blue plastic on one side, and white diamond pattern of white padding on the other, “don’t worry, we got you.”

Steve starts to list to the side, Eddie drops the overnight bag to come in front, Steve flailing and grabbing Eddie’s other hand as he pants his way through something that looks pretty fucking painful from a spectators point of view.

“Okay Mr. Harrington, I have to have a look.”

“Need the chair?” Nurse number one asks.

“Nope, way too late for that, he’s crowning,” and then suddenly a lot happens all at once. There’s another nurse there suddenly, gloved up and wearing an apron. Steve drags Eddie down with him as he sinks to his knees.

“Okay Mr. Harrington, you’re going to feel the urge to push on your contraction, you go ahead and do that when it feels right.”

Steve’s clawing at Eddie, his hands move for purchase on Eddie’s shoulders, “Eddie, I don’t want to have my baby in the fucking hallway,” he pants, face buried against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Uhm, not sure we can stop it,” Eddie says really really unhelpfully, right as Steve growls out a sound Eddie didn’t even know Omega’s could even make.

Eddie's forced to have his chin hooked over Steve's shoulder due to their positions, and that means Eddie's looking straight down Steve's back; he has front row seats for what happens next.

The nurses are all talking to each other, and they're all pretty calm, like this is a normal day at the office, except for when one of them shouts for something...and then there’s a baby. it just sort of slips free of Steve's body, like a magic trick, Steve making another one of those noises right in Eddie's ear.

The pup is crying and one of the nurses says, “is that a new record?”

A different one replies, “nah, there was that lady who only made it into the lobby.”

Eddie stares in wonder. And also, a bit in horror. It’s a boy, very definitely a boy, in fact. Eddie’s instinct is that Steve’s just given birth to an Alpha. One who’s covered in gack and blood, and he’s waving his arms and legs around like he doesn’t know what to do with all the space he’s suddenly got. He’s kind of covered in whitish slime, and he has got a lot of hair. Like a lot.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with his lungs.

“Are they okay? Eddie, please- is-”

“Yeah,” Eddie comes back to earth with a bump, Steve whispering in his ear, Eddie watches the nurse tie off and cut the umbilical, “yeah he’s absolutely fine Steve.”

“He?” Steve sobs against Eddie’s neck.

Eddie watches as a nurse kind of randomly sticks her fingers in the babies mouth, and then they’re taking him away and Eddie is not at all fucking happy about that but is distracted again by a nurse.

“Okay Mr. Harrington, once more and you’re done.”

For a split second, Eddie thinks Steve’s having twins, but then he finds out the placenta is a whole other thing that needs to happen.

Every day’s a school day.

Eddie’s kneeling on a hallway floor, taking half of Steve’s weight, and Steve’s just had a pup. Steve snuffles at Eddie’s neck, and Eddie is flooded with a bone deep certainty that he is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“Eddie, I have to get up.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah.”

Eddie helps, making it half way before wheelchair nurse is back, and Eddie helps Steve, really gingerly and a little awkward, settle into the chair.

“Where is he?”

“They’re just cleaning him up, lets get you onto a bed and he’ll be there.”

Steve just...strips in front of Eddie. Eddie catches stretchmarks and then the curve of Steve’s ass as he climbs into bed, and then, true to their word, swaddled in a hospital blanket, the baby is half unwrapped so that they are skin to skin, and deposited onto Steve’s chest, “seven pound four,” she tells Steve.

She waits, making sure Steve doesn’t have any problems with the baby ‘latching’ – which Eddie works out is the proper word for the little guy getting on Steve’s nip – and then she goes to get Steve some water and pain relief.

Eddie just stands there, next to the bed, quietly amazed. It’s like the whole world just shifted a little to the left; this tiny thing suckling at Steve’s rounded chest is just...suddenly the most precious thing in the world. Steve's got a fair bit of chest hair for an Omega; Eddie cannot stop staring at where the tiny pups fingers are gripping at it as he suckles.

“Steve,” Steve looks up, he looks tired, and a little washed out, but so fucking happy, “congratulations.”

Steve smiles, “thanks Eddie.”

“So what are you going to name him?”

Steve’s had a drink, some pain meds, and been inspected by a doctor. Eddie was aloud to sit in the arm chair and hold the little pup while Steve got checked out and...he didn’t cry, but it was close. The scent of pup seems to have already ingrained itself on Eddie’s soul.

He’s asleep now, and neither of them can stop staring at him, they talk in whispers.

“I don't know, I thought I’d just...see them and know, somehow.”

Eddie hums, thinking. “How about Ronnie James?”

“Uh hu. And who is that?”

“Ronnie James Dio Steve, only the greatest musical talent of all time.”

Steve sighs, “I like James.”

“Yeah?”

“Jamie, yeah, James Robin Harrington, what do you think?”

“I mean...I’m kind of biased but yeah. Yeah I like it.”

“Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Steve.”

“Hey, Robbie.”

Robin comes into the room slowly, and Eddie can tell she’s barely holding back, “I missed it. Oh I’m so sorry I missed it I-”

“Hey it’s okay, honestly it happened so fast I nearly missed it.”

They keep chatting, Robin apologizing and then, crying. And then Steve starts crying. And Robins saying she’s so proud and they’re scenting each other and Robin's scenting the pup and then they’re crying again and Steve’s telling her the name and then that’s a whole thing because Robin didn’t know about the middle name, apparently-

A blonde beta female has sidled up to Eddie, “I’m Chrissy, Eddie, right?”

“Yeah, nice to finally meet you.”

“Yeah same and...this,” she vaguely indicates where Robin and Steve are now, cuddled on the bed with the pup, “we just have to let this happen, you want to grab a coffee?”

Eddie doesn’t want to leave, he wants to climb into bed with his mate and his pup and never leave them, but he also recognizes that instinct for what it is; batshit. “I’d fucking love one.”

[hunnyy-bunnyyy]

The dissonance between era inspiration in ACoTaR is one of the more brushed over flaws in the book series. Looking at the Inner Circle's fashion alone, we jump between "literal scraps of fabric" (Under the Mountain, Court of Nightmares) to "orientalist painter's imaginings of the Ottoman Harem" (clothing described during Feyre's first few visits to the Night Court) to "modern 'corset' dress" (Feyre's Starfall dress, majority of Mor's clothing, most of the clothes drawn in fan art) to "modern -- almost sci-fi style -- skin-tight leather armor" to "sweater and leggings combo".

Then, between courts, we have Helion wearing Spirit Halloween's take on the ancient Grecian tunic; Feyre's Spring Court wedding dress looking like an 1830s fashion plate; and Dawn heavily implied to have traditional East Asain clothing (e.g. kimono, hanfu, hanbok).

On top of all of that, some of the Dawn Court's small cities ". . . specialized in tinkering and clockwork and clever things. . ." which -- combined with Lucien's metal eye and Nuan's mechanical hand -- implies a sort of post-industrial revolution time period. However, a decent chunk of the fandom says that ACoTaR is medieval; which, yeah, it's medieval themed in the first book -- sans the "dress" Rhysand forces Feyre to wear UTM.

The wild inconsistencies in ACoTaR's inspiration leads, not to a rich and diverse world, but a world that seems ramshackle and haphazard -- like it's creator simply threw together a board on Pinterest and called it a day. This is a major part of why the world building is so abysmal, it relies on convenience to the plot and whatever pleases the aesthetic whims of the author. Cultures deemed "pretty" or "badass" are thrown together, irregardless of how far apart they actually are. This is not only disrespectful to the narrative, but to the readers and the cultures used as inspiration.

All of this to say: Sarah J Maas is a bad author, not just because of the way she handles serious topics like power dynamics and abuse, but also because she cannot put together a world that is even the slightest bit cohesive.

[feroluce]

Belobog was my fave main quest but a lot of it is so. Contradictory. It's like they had multiple groups doing different shit and none of them checked in with each other for consistency. And you see this so much in Gepard's profile.

So in the main quest, they made him unfailingly, unquestionably loyal to Cocolia. Gepard's character arc is him learning to question authority etc etc. And this isn't even a bad thing; that's a story worth telling! It makes good conflict between him and Serval! And I love that we got Gepard as a boss battle and I get to see him all the time in SU!

But then you look at his character stories and it's like. The complete opposite.

According to his profile, Gepard has already HAD this awakening, long before the Astral Express, and he'd already decided Cocolia sucks. Even outside of his stories, there's a pretty damning readable between him and Pela.

He even disobeyed direct orders right in front of her- he has been disobeying orders for a while now!

So I've decided I'm marrying the two different sides of this into a 1.5k fic-ish thingy, because I think there's some fun potential there with Gepard not trusting Cocolia, but still having to pretend to be a good obedient little soldier.

Anyway. I love to think of it as like. Gepard knows Cocolia has sunk into her apathy. He can see it in her eyes every time he looks at her. She doesn't care. Not about him, not about Pela, not about all his soldiers on the frontlines giving their lives to protect the citizens. And that's... It makes him bristle a bit, but ok. Gepard can deal with this. Even if Cocolia no longer cares, as long as she does her job then it's fine. Having compassion behind an action doesn't matter as much as the action itself. If Cocolia's heart is no longer swayed, then he'll just have to care twice as hard to pick up the slack. He considers it part of his duty as a captain of the guard anyway. It's fine. Gepard can deal with it.

And then, Cocolia starts coming down to the restricted zone. Issuing direct orders.

And Gepard realizes he is in way over his head.

Because Cocolia orders him to stay back and issue commands from the ramparts, away from all his comrades, away from where he can protect them.

Gepard had thought nothing could be as bad as watching a fellow guard die right next to him. But the first time he watches someone struck by a killing blow, so far away, it hurts. Every defensive scar across his arms itches, his fingers curl in want of a weapon, the cold cannot numb his hands enough as they desperately ache for his shield. It hurts.

Gepard tries to find any reason to stay. Because surely... He knows Cocolia has lost her love for her people, but surely... She wouldn't...

One day, Cocolia orders for their gunners to advance 20 yards. There are no survivors. She almost looks like she smiles.

Gepard doesn't sleep that night.

Pela brings him the report at the end of the first month; and then the month after that, and the month after that. A significant uptick in losses, and all of it started on that first day Cocolia started overriding his authority and issuing her own orders. The ends of Gepard's pens have all been nearly chewed off. Pela outright calls Cocolia an idiot, and Gepard corrects her. Cocolia isn't an idiot. Gepard had known her through Serval, knew her through all her college years and then some, and he knows how intelligent she is. It's not that she's stupid, and it's not that she's inexperienced, it's nothing of the sort.

Cocolia knows exactly what she's doing.

She must, there's no way she could make such a horrible mess of things so badly by accident. And Pela, quick as a whip, sharp as a tack, always too smart for her own good, catches onto the meaning behind Gepard's correction without any further prompting. The tent goes deathly quiet, nothing but the wind howling outside.

"...She's trying to kill us," Pela whispers, her voice swiftly suffocated by the silence.

Gepard swallows. He can't bring himself to correct her this time. There is nothing he could say that he would actually mean.

His gaze drops, back down to his desk and the reports on it. The names aren't listed, just the numbers, but Gepard knows them, knew them, and there must be something wrong, something he's missing, because why, why would she-? What could this possibly accomplish-?

“Gepard! Focus!” Something snaps right under his nose, and Gepard startles, eyes instantly honing in on Pela's irritated face as she leans over his desk. She holds his gaze for a moment before she huffs and begins to pace, wedges a knuckle between her teeth and bites like Gepard hasn't seen her do since cadet school.

Pela angrily strides from one end of his tent to the other, words hissed between her grit teeth. “What are we going to do?” In the dim lighting, Gepard can just barely see the damp spot of blood weeping under her gloves. “We need a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Wh- Yes, a plan! Unless you want more people to die!” Pela rounds on him then, all the wrath of a blizzard, winds roaring and snow sharp enough to cut.

“We don't even know-”

“What does it matter?! She killed-!!” Pela cuts off with a garbled noise when Gepard leaps up from his desk, hastily shoves his hand over her mouth. The prosthetic, not the flesh one, because he knows better than to assume Pela won't seize the opportunity to leave teeth marks in his skin.

“You're right. I'm sorry, I'm sorry; you're right. But you need to keep quiet.” Pela quirks an eyebrow at him and Gepard can read the question in her face. “Because we both saw what she did to Serval,” he hisses.

It's amazing the snow plains haven't thawed out yet, the amount of heat Pela can put behind a glare. The mere mention of Serval, and the smoking ruins Cocolia had made of her life and career, have her bristling up like a riled cat. The sudden hot breath she takes fans fog across his metal skin, and Gepard wisely keeps it in place until Pela finally sighs and reaches up, taps her fingertips against the back of his hand.

The second she's free, Pela bats him away and then her knuckle is right back between her teeth again, Gepard leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed to watch her resume her pacing. “If we spread the word, she'll have us discharged and make sure we can't even touch the frontlines,” Pela's voice seethes like an open sore. Gepard nods but keeps his silence. He knows better than to get in her way.

“And if you and I are both out of the picture, Belobog is fucked.” A little harsher than how he would have put it, but there's no denying that they're both important to the city's survival. Pela has the restricted zone running as efficiently as ever, and Gepard had become the youngest captain on record for a reason. “We need to keep this tight under wraps, at least for now… It can't leak to anyone higher up the chain.” Another nod. “Serval might know other discontents…” Another n-

Gepard's head snaps up. “No.”

“No what?”

“No. We're not involving Serval in this.”

Somehow, even the same tone that leaves entire squadrons shaking in their boots has never worked on her. “You're not deciding that for her, Gepard.”

Pela hadn't seen the worst of it, though, back when his sister had just been banned from the Architects. Serval's pride hadn't allowed it. Pela wasn't the one to find her passed out bottle still in hand, hadn't been the one to wash the sick out of her hair or carry her to bed. 

Serval still has trouble thinking clearly when it comes to Cocolia, still can't quite bring herself to be objective. And Gepard maybe doesn't want her to be purely objective- but he would worry a lot less if she thought twice before she acted more often.

“At least let me be the one to bring it up to her.”

“Whatever, fine,” Pela gestures affirmatively at him as she paces past, and Gepard sighs. Good, at least that's one thing he can help.

From there, it's a lot of hemming and hawing and frustration. Cocolia has them under her boot, and Gepard and Pela both know it. Even with the way she's been cracking down on freedoms lately, Cocolia is still, overall, liked by the people. It's unlikely anyone would believe them. They don't even have solid proof, because most people don't know Cocolia as well as they do and won't see the clues in the same light. 

The Fragmentum has been ramping up in recent years, too. Everyone is struggling just to survive as is, they can't afford a fight on two fronts. Gepard is a damn good captain, one of the best for that matter. But they're at a massive disadvantage, his experience is narrowed to fighting a defensive battle against monsters, that's all he's ever done. That's all anyone there has ever done. He has no way of finding first-hand knowledge for taking the offensive against a human opponent, and if he goes at this blind, there's no way he'll get everyone out unscathed. He's going to lose people. He's going to lose a lot of people.

He'd never thought before that Cocolia would have it in her to have someone killed. And with this new knowledge, he has no guarantee she won't go after Serval or Lynx if she decides to retaliate.

Gepard has to remind himself to breathe when he realizes this.

Pela writes down every name the two of them can come up with. Lists and lists of names and groups and anyone they can think of who might be an ally in all of this. They memorize every bit of it, make their plans of who to talk to and when. Gepard watches the sparks reflect off Pela's glasses as they burn the evidence together.

Pela finally leaves, far too late to make it home, but says she wants to stay in the restricted zone anyway to investigate. Gepard watches her make her way in the direction of Dunn's tent, watches her back until she's out of his sight and squashes down the urge to follow and keep an eye on her. His tent feels empty.

In the morning, Gepard is up before the wake up bells. He drags himself out of bed, leads his soldiers through their morning training. The same people gravitate to each other everyday. Friend groups and training partners. There's an ongoing rivalry between a few squadrons that everyone bets on. Some of them have lockets around their necks, keepsakes, mementos. Some of them wear wedding rings.

Gepard is suddenly, painfully aware of something acidic clawing at the inside of his throat, of a heavy weight low in his chest that blooms, takes up room until it threatens to spread his ribs. His mouth tastes of bile and blood.

He rearranges the schedules. Puts himself down for every open patrol into the Fragmentum, makes sure he'll be on the frontlines every single time Cocolia visits.

He only hopes that it's enough.

[forgetful-river]

You're allowed to ascend but only if God wants you to, and God can be a bit of an authoritarian bastard

[longagoitwastuesday]

I keep thinking that this Gojo is just like Sukuna. I truly don't see much of a difference between them beyond the human/curse point of view

[astrosky33]

𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

》 Mercury dominant

》 Virgo Stellium

》 Gemini Stellium

》 Capricorn Mercury

》 Gemini/Virgo Mercury

》 Mercury in the 10th house

》 Mercury in the 5th house

》 Mercury in the 3rd house

》 Jupiter in the 3rd house

》 Mercury - MC aspects

》 Mercury - Neptune aspects

》 Mercury at 3°/15°/27°/28°

𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

》 Mercury represents writing/literature/books/publishing

》 Jupiter represents success/wealth

》 Neptune represents creativity

》 3rd house represents writing/literature/books/publishing

》 5th house represents talents/creativity

》 MC/10H represent career/fame

》 28° represents wealth

MY MASTERLIST

INDICATIONS MASTERLIST

© 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[gallimaufryish]

Tina Louise (1934- ) as Julie Grey on Dallas (1978)

[rxttenfish]

Pardon the question, but how do the reimagined merfolk reproduce? In MP I recall them saying that merfolk reproduce in a similar way to seahorses (may be a throwaway joke, but in any case) but the reimagined merfolk are obviously different from how they are in MP in many ways.

ah yes, one of those things that i've had worked out fully for forever but never made a dedicated post on it over here... at least partially because im suspicious of tumblr and its ability to nuke anything even frankly talking about sexual selection and reproductive methods of various animals, oops.

which is why this is going under a cut, oops. like i said, lots of frank discussion of sexual selection and the processes of it. im a nerd when it comes to this.

-

the first thing most humans would notice when looking upon a group of merfolk (of the same species), is a notable lack of dimorphism. there's no dramatic color shifts, no difference in size beyond usual distribution among a population, no odd behaviors, nothing to really sort them out from each other. this is a consistent theme among merfolk in general — while they continually get larger as they age (at a much slower rate than they did growing up, certainly, and not as dramatic as pop media might suggest this to be), it's still fairly close along the existing curve of height distribution, and usually the only real "tells" for an adult merfolk's age is that they get pitted and worn, a little like a statue slowly wearing down, or similar to the age of crocodilians.

which might be a little odd for these hypothetical humans looking onwards, even if they were already familiar enough to be able to tell merfolk facial features apart. even moreso because as frank as merfolk cultures usually are about sex and nudity taboos seem rare, all of their applicable anatomy is internal, so even seeing one entirely in the nude isn't enough to sex them.

the truth has to do with merfolk as a secondarily aquatic tetrapod. i've mentioned before that the early ancestors of merfolk were temnospondyls that responded to environmental stressors in their freshwater environments by being able to take advantage of a wide variety of environments. they have lungs and gills, meaning they can breathe on land very well if they need to move between pools and ponds, and they have gills to optimize their time spent underwater and not have to surface if the going is good underwater. even more than that, they developed both external gills and internal gills, meaning they could reap the benefits of both fast-moving and slow-moving water.

all of this is relevant, because to be exposed to all of these different environments and to be able to move between them when the going gets tough in one, means they had to make longer and longer treks over land. some were dependent on specific vernal pools that they would travel to to raise their young, but this also limited the areas in which they could live, and if those vernal pools dried up then they could not reproduce.

so these early-line temnospondyls made the same switch that other tetrapods have made, and switched to internal fertilization. this meant that, if they were to find another one of their species during their land-travels, they could mate and continue onwards, even being ready to lay eggs right at the moment they found the vernal pool, limiting the amount of time the offspring needed in the water.

however, they did still need vernal pools and water, and were very vulnerable in these stages. and with the existing push towards shorter and shorter time spent in the vernal pools, well, what if they just didn't bother with them at all? it'd put more stress on the parents, but they were already primed to be able to survive through these periods of stress, so it wouldn't be such a huge jump.

so the line that would eventually lead to merfolk and the leviathans both made the switch to live birth fairly early on in their history.

the rest that happens from there varies. this was a more diverse group, back in the day! there were many different species with many different methods for that live birth. some would continue just carrying the fertilized eggs to be dropped off in the next suitable pool they found, some developed them into tadpoles, some went through metamorphosis in the womb and popped out into the world as mini adults, some left spermatophores for others of their species to pick up, some developed evertable genitalia and went at it that way.

but another shift also happened early on in their evolutionary history. them being able to spread out so far and wide meant that there was a very low density of them in any given area, and these low numbers made them vulnerable. if there was high disparity in the proportion of sexes in any given area, they'd feel the effects of that quicker, and when they were already in competition over the same niches as other temnospondyls, crocodylomorphs, marine reptiles, and later early cetaceans, etc who dominated these niches, they were often kept at these lower population numbers.

which was about when these early-line temnospondyls also made the switch to a trioecious mating system.

this happened because sex determination in amphibians is already weird, so it wasn't too far of a leap for a mutation to arise which created fertile dual-sexed individuals. and these dual-sexed individuals had a lot of success under the niche they had already carved out! now, whenever they did find another member of their same species, it was guaranteed that they could mate with them, which meant that their populations were self-sustaining and stable on much lower numbers. due to how their dispersal already worked, inbreeding wasn't as much of a negative factor, and they were even more capable of making it through the disasters and ecological strain that had the other non-lissamphibia temnospondyls going extinct. they could eke out a living wherever they found it, make long traversals over land if they needed to seek out greener pastures, and they were able to sustain themselves in the background without needing as high of a density of themselves in any given spot.

like i said too - this was a diverse clade back in the day! and you ended up getting different variations on this. some species didn't have any dual-sexed individuals. some species had only dual-sexed individuals. some had only males and dual-sexed individuals, and some only females and the dual-sexed individuals, and all in various different proportions and numbers.

what matters here is that merfolk were a part of the line who had evertable internal genitalia, and who ended up entirely composed of these dual-sexed members, making them an entirely unisex species in the modern day.

(this is also where i butt in, to explain from an authorial perspective, this is me kinda... being sneaky with canon and how it tends to phrase things. yes, technically it is the male who gets pregnant with merfolk! but, also, so would females. because they don't have "male" or "female" in these strict terms, and any given individual to them has the potential to do both. this is something that i do a lot with the usual facts given to me by canon, where it's technically true, just because i like to be contrary about it and not take things in the most literal way. it's just what i find fun, i know some other people do it differently, and that's fine with me!)

what this means is that merfolk don't have a conception of "gender". it checks out with their social structure too, because if a merfolk's miivt'ia have a child, then it doesn't matter who actually physically created that child, said merfolk would still consider themselves their parent all the same. the reproductive unit is larger than a singular merfolk or even two merfolk, and at that point, even if they were bisex, then each grouping still has the same reproductive potential as any other.

what this means is that, when miranda describes herself as a princess or a girl or that the king is her dad or she has sisters — these are best seen as translation errors. to a merfolk, the concepts at play aren't gendered. they would not immediately identify themselves as male, they would not immediately identify themselves as female, they'd be very confused and would only get more confused as you tried to explain it to them. miranda describes herself as a princess and uses she/her because she was told that, for landfolk, everyone had to pick one of two and she had to just choose one. she picked "princess" and "girl" because one of the first things given to her as a way to learn english were fairytales, and she really ended up latching onto the princess characters in them.

in fact, this is why merfolk seem to be a little... reductive? when it comes to gender? as in, if you do take the time to explain it to them, you will have to explain it all. which means starting with gender relating to the different genitalia, and you have just told this hypothetical merfolk that it is important to landfolk, who will now operate under that assumption. they will not innately understand why landfolk care about this or all the distinctions thereof and certainly not the nuance of it, so they end up just going "okay, when this landfolk tells me this person is a girl, that must mean she is like this", and potentially getting frustrated when you tell them that that's wrong.

it can't even really work for royals, who do simplify parentage down to two people, and care a whole lot about who is related to whom. for royals in the current merkingdom, its primarily about attempting to preserve a specific lineage. because merfolk lineage is its own can of worms, they simplify - they take the current heir (one who has been groomed and taught how to behave as though emblematic of that lineage and has been guaranteed to have the strongest claim to it), and will find a suitable non-heir of another royal house, for whom they will forbid either of them to make kids with any other merfolk. this agreement is less like a marriage in the traditional sense, and more like the heir's house is briefly sponsoring the non-heir's house, sending extended political and economic benefits to the latter through this connection, in exchange for reinforcing the lineage of the heir and making it more potent, reinforcing their political ties.

this is to ensure that absolutely no other genetics can be involved and to contain the process. because this occurs by who-was-born-where, it also means that only the heir really matters in this ordeal. if the heir dies while the non-heir of the couple lives, and they already have had children, then the non-heir is "locked in" and cannot remarry, obliged to stay within the heir's house in their current position to ensure the current holders of the lineage are brought up and cared for properly. if the heir dies while the non-heir lives, and they have no children, then the non-heir is sent back to their prior family with no benefits, and the next heir is named as though the marriage never happened. if the non-heir dies while the heir lives, then they can remarry as they please, existing children or not. this is not especially popular, as the non-heir's family can accuse the heir's family of being unfair or snubbing them, but it is still perfectly legal and accepted.

for instance: the king, miranda's father, had to marry into the royal family. it was the queen, miranda's mother, who was the crown princess before miranda, and who is seen as passing her inheritance down onto miranda and the other three sisters. when the queen died, the king could not remarry. he was secure in his position as king, but any other marriages would not carry the lineage of the royal family, and at best he would be seen as trying to "dilute" that lineage.

in this setup, it's not all that important who is the donor party and who is the carrying party. either the inheritor or their partner can be the one carrying, so long as it's certain and guaranteed who the baby comes from and that this can be assured with certainty. usually it's agreed between the two of them for whatever reason, though the carrying partner does have a benefit in being a surefire way to prove that they are one of the parents, with zero doubt. inheritors will do this mostly to make their kids look the most "100% royal line, no doubts", but this can also go the opposite way, to cement it down to it being a specific line who carried them and to reinforce the political benefits their prior family enjoys from this arrangement.

which brings me back to merfolk genetics, and why this is so important for the royals to ensure they know exactly who made what!

which is to say, merfolk never opted for traditional sexual competition, and instead erred towards sperm competition.

early on in their lineage, they didn't have a lot of sexual dimorphism to begin with. they were already fairly widespread, and while gatherings around early vernal pools were a pressure towards sexual competition, after they stopped relying on vernal pools, the differences between the sexes became more of a hinderance than a benefit. why would they bother with any colorful spots or being extra big and bulky when you're not even around enough of your species for choice to be an issue? if you can find another one to begin with, then that's really all either of you need, and challenging each other just puts another bind on that low-population issue. they were all function, minimal fuss, beyond some general traits that were seen as markers of health.

even when the ancestors of merfolk first started forming their colonies along the coasts, they didn't change this. there wasn't an initial hierarchy laid out, they were just a large group of the same species arranged in the same area for the same purpose, and also maybe some protection by numbers. they did start to form the early groups that would later lead to the modern miivt'ia, and they started to primarily associate with those groups and socialize with them, which meant that when they wanted to find someone to mate with, that hunting group was always the first and the easiest to access.

why fight over mates in that situation? why compete? the health of the group starts to become directly correlated to the health of the individual, and you've already determined they all have good genes, or else they wouldn't be this beneficial to helping you hunt and survive and evade predation.

but this isn't to say competition isn't happening. there is still the slight edge that natural selection adds in, and with multiple matings between different individuals, the thing that gets selected upon is the sperm itself. faster sperm, ways to kill competetor's sperm, ways to suppress the immune system of the mating partner to ensure that sperm will take, more output, ways to remove competetor's sperm to begin with, etc etc etc. their internal genitals start to get bizarre, both for the sake of excluding saltwater intrusion as they get more and more aquatic, but also for the sake of this sperm competition. this system also means, not only do more matings occur right after each other, but more partners involved. the "default" evolutionary position for merfolk starts to look more and more like a clump of noodles, writhing around and over each other. sexual contact becomes a way to bond and to connect with someone primarily, and a means to reproduce secondarily. it's an easy way to solve problems and to get merfolk to make up, by them simply fucking it out and everyone feeling better for it.

which is where i can get into the actual mechanics of it all!

unfortunately this is also where i run out of steam (also am sick. that will do it too), so i'll absolutely have to make a part 2 to this... and also i'll make another post sharing a few old writings of mine on this topic.

someday i'll make like. a masterpost on merfolk reproduction and what's going on there, but like i said. sexual selection is one of those things my brain goes ham for and i looooove talking about all these additional little facts. like how merfolk pregnancies last 2 years (to match with other large marine predators), and that they're based off of both tiger sharks and the alpine salamander, the latter of which has the record for the longest pregnancy on the planet at up to five years :3

also read Bitch: On the Female of the Species by Lucy Cooke if this sounds interesting to you! and maybe listen to the episodes the Common Descent Podcast did on Live Birth and Milk!!!

[evenceflux18]

Another post to myself but another thankful 23rd birthday to myself, I wanted to say thank you for those who stayed with Coraline journey and supported me through and through! I'm getting older as time goes one but my heart would still have a place for my childhood dreams😊

I'll work even harder and produce more ideas ya'll thank so much!🥰

[blaithnne]

And what if Alfur was ftm transgender then what would you do

[jennyfromthebes]

oh this is a REALLY good article.

[image transcript:

“The ghosts that haunt your building are prepared to take on substance

And the dull pain that you live with isn’t getting any duller

There’s a closet full of almost-pristine videotape

Documenting sordid little scenes in living color”

I identified so strongly with the lyrics it scared me. I had stomped down my gender confusion so much it left my whole soul bruised and tender, a dull pain which only got sharper with time. I tried to tell myself I was past the self-hatred and disgust that began at puberty, that I was content with my lot in life. But I, like the speaker of the song, had a closet full of evidence to the contrary, the memory of a thousand sordid scenes of gender-play and crossdressing more vibrant and real than anything I ever did as my assigned gender.

When I came out, it didn’t feel like a choice. It felt beautiful and inevitable, like the thousand ghosts of my body had decided for me.

/end transcript]

[serialreblogger]

the thing about the joker

is that - well, even canonically, he’s not actually “insane.” in the most canonical version of his backstory (bc there are many conflicting incarnations, but this one is the touchstone for a lot of later canon), he was part of a street gang before falling into a vat of Nondescript Toxic Waste that damaged his melanin production and That’s It. he supposedly “lost his mind” after seeing his reflection, which is absurd on many levels. no. he’s not “insane.” what he is, is an angry white boy.

the thing about the joker is that he exults in his own uncontainability. He laughs, because all of gotham - all the world - is built to be his playground. the only lunatic thing about him is the lunacy of ~Society~, to borrow from the joker’s own playbook; the lunacy of the joker lies in the world that grants him power: in the inheritance of loss: in white privilege, and what it means for everyone else.

“to prove a point.” those were the joker’s exact words, when he shot and paralyzed Barbara Gordon. she asked why: he laughed. “to prove a point.”

because that’s all he ever does. he hurts people because he can. and because all the power in the world can’t save him from getting hurt - and isn’t that just peachy?

because the thing about the joker is that he can get hurt. he has been hurt. but he has so much more capacity to harm than to be harmed. he is immortal. he and he alone will never have to face the consequences of the hurt that he inflicts on other people.

so then: why not hurt them? misery loves company, after all.

the joker is the embodiment and end result of our own social system: the madness of the exception: the laughter of the white man: the imprecation to smile, as he kills you.

(no one ever says it, i find, but it’s still true: barbara deserves to kill him.)

and who, then, is the batman? if the joker is the yin to his yang? if they’re two sides of one irredeemable coin, if they represent the “balance” of an unjustifiable system - who is he if not another white man?

because he is. Bruce Wayne is a white boy born into unspeakable privilege and forced to endure suffering anyway; who copes with his suffering by taking it out on others; who copes with his suffering, not by taking advantage of the world as it is, but by attempting to reshape it. to make it in his own image - as if it isn’t already his, as if claiming it further will crush out the pain.

the batman is the benevolent oppressor to the joker’s malevolent one. he changes nothing, in the end. two privileged white boys with their own respective navel-gazing grudges - where, after all, lies the difference between benevolence and malevolence?

because they are not “chaos” and “order.” not really. They are laissez-faire laughter and law. Joker exults in the disease of the system, Batman seeks to treat its symptoms, but neither of them will ever change anything about the root cause. because they may have suffered the faults of this system, but they still benefit so much more from it as it exists. Uphold it or break it, neither of them wants to change the law.

but the law is only as good as the people it’s made to protect. and who does that law protect, really?

waylon jones is, in one issue, explicitly depicted as Black. between that and his skin disorder, there has never once been room for his character to be any more than a monster: king croc is, always, a character to be violated and brutalized, over and over and over and still - always - written as the villain. (he tried so hard to scrape out a place for himself, so many times, in so many incarnations, and each and every time he finds himself relegated once more to the sewers. he will never be anyone’s king. there is no place under the sun for people like him.)

victor fries only ever wanted to save his wife, and a capitalist mogul decided a few extra numbers on his eight-digit paycheck were more important than the people whose lives depended on that money. fries’ body was damaged to disability by that choice, left without the resources to find a cure for his wife, and he robbed banks because there was no other option available to him. we seem to have forgotten, or maybe never really understood, why that matters. why a desperate man trying to save his life and that of his loved ones under the crushing gears of capitalism is a villain, and the one who stops him is our hero. why, under the law batman upholds, a bank vault and a CEO’s hoard is worth more than a life.

poison ivy just wants to live, too. wants a life not defined by the devastation of her body, of the beings that exist as extensions of her, a life where green and growing things are not commodities to be plowed up and poisoned and destroyed for the sake of another man’s profit. these are villains; they are written as such. these are their motives.

who does batman fight for, really? who is our hero, this emblem of our law?

is he our hero? ours, the broken and bleeding members of the world he claims to protect?

who does the law protect, except him - him, and the joker?

[captainkirkk]

A lot of A/B/O fics write this traditional society where omegas are slut shamed, and pressured to have children, and have limited bodily autonomy, and aren't able to play "masculine" sports, and are pressured to be feminine and small and thin and beautiful

It's just a genderbend AU with extra steps and a strong dash of misogyny

[niobiumao3]

What a fantastic day to remember how much I fucking loathe Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare and was so happy when Disney took it down and made it Legends. So fucking happy.

Reproductive stupidity in high tech settings fills me with a blinding rage.

[chaoticbooklesbian]

According to the Doctor Who Listened To Me, switching from my birth control to this new treatment could result in weight loss, if, indeed, my steady weight gain over the last decade or so was due to the birth control. I'm having severely mixed feelings about this possibility.

On the one hand, if I did lose all the weight birth control (presumably) made me gain, it would be much easier to interact with the world. Buying (and making) clothes would be much easier. Buying furniture, too, and cheaper besides. I'd be able to ride roller coasters again, sit in whatever seat in a theater, sit in booths in restaurants. I wouldn't have to ask for seatbelt extenders on planes, or worry about unintentionally invading someone's space because of how much I take up just by existing.

On the other hand...I've seen what happens when people lose that kind of weight. I've seen how much better they're treated. I am so desperate to protect the younger me who lives in my head from having it proven that it was her body that was incorrect, not the people around her. I don't want little girl me to have to know, conclusively, that they were right, that she would have had it so much better if she just lost the weight. I don't want to see just how much more desirable I would've been this whole time if I'd just been half the size I am. I don't want to know how many crushes would have liked me back if I'd just been smaller. I don't want to know exactly how unworthy I am now, as I currently am. And I'm terrified, because I know that if the weight does come off, I'll find out whether I want to or not.