#the white locus

[harbingersecho]

no one asked for this but i delivered it anyways

[hearthfire-heartfire]

let's talk about trump and the tea party.

for folks who are a bit younger, you may or may not remember that the response to obama's 2008 election from the right was to fracture: the tea party was a grassroots movement of right-wing folk who thought the GOP was too centrist and corrupt. they positioned themselves as defenders of the constitution and, essentially, a populist party composed of the scions of the founding fathers, hence the name 'the tea party' and the adoption of 18th century iconography like the 'don't tread on me' flag and tricorne hats. they won a bunch of seats in congress and having to capitulate to them in the name of diplomacy created a lot of the deadlock that obama ran up against when his administration tried to do anything following the 2010 mid-term elections. this became the blueprint for what constitutes 'normal' behavior in american politics.

trump became a media darling both because he was regularly on tv on 'the apprentice' (all the way until 2015 when he was fired by nbc over his remarks on mexican immigrants while campaigning) and because his tweets became really popular among tea party members. he was the one who really put fire in the rumor that obama was born in kenya by tweeting about it, he rallied people with cries of 'show us your birth certificate,' and his jabs at obama were taken very seriously by what would become his core base. this was how he launched his political career.

i do not think we would have q-anon without the tea party. project 2025 has been in the works thru a network established in the reagan era (side note: please sign up for sarah kendzior's substack. she was a political journalist specializing in covering autocracies before trump was elected and i've been following her since then), but their methods have become much less subtle the more the right is rewarded for their unhinged tactics and outright insurrection.

if trump goes away, the momentum behind his base is still a threat to the world. if he is defeated at the polls, his base is going to take that as proof of the vast conspiracy they have constructed around him. and the truth is that individuals within the democratic party are beholden to the network organizing project 2025 even if they don't agree with nor explicitly endorse their aims. the dnc is actively campaigning against their own members who are unfriendly to AIPAC, like jamal bowman, and biden is talking about how only god could make him step down at this point.

i don't blame people for being afraid, but i will blame folks who are choosing to point their fear at a strawman version of the left instead of recognizing that we have been hamstrung by our own. what should be a time to reinvest in our mutual values has become a frenzy of panic and regression. we can't go back to 2019. wear a mask and see if there a street medic training or a mask bloc or food distro near you.

[minespatch1]

[tetedurfarm]

dazzle camouflage is real (think zebra stripes or shiny silver fish) but a harlequin's stripes is not that. it is just a marking that humans have selectively bred for because it's pretty.

Dazzle camouflage is a family of rabbit camouflage that was used extensively by Harlequin rabbits, and to a lesser extent, other rabbit breeds throughout history. It consisted of complex patterns of geometric shapes in contrasting colors interrupting and intersecting each other.

Unlike other forms of camouflage, the intention of dazzle is not to conceal, but to make it difficult to estimate a rabbit's range, speed, and heading.

[probablyasocialecologist]

And so it makes sense that these are now the places where fascism grows; that’s what these places were designed for. The suburbs were invented as a reactionary tool against the women’s liberation and civil rights movements. The US government, in concert with banks, landowners, and home builders, created a way to try and stop all that, by separating people into single homes, removing public spaces, and ensuring that every neighborhood was segregated via redlining. The suburbs would keep white women at home, and would keep white men at work to afford that home. These were explicit goals of the designers: “No man who owns his house and lot can be a Communist,” said the creator of Levittown, the model suburb. “He has too much to do.” The reason Target has become the locus of today’s particular right-wing backlash is the same reason countless viral TikToks attempt to convince women that they’re at risk of being kidnapped every time they’re in a parking lot. It’s the reason why true crime is one of the most popular podcast genres in America, and why many refuse to travel without a gun by their side and shoot people if they set foot on their driveway.

[...]

It is of course true that these mass hysterias are part of an organized right-wing movement that is attacking human rights across the country—through legislation banning abortion, gender-affirming care, and books, and making it illegal for educators to teach American history accurately. But the shape this movement has taken is not coincidental; it is in fact the product of the unique shape of public life in America, or lack thereof. Suburbanites do not have town squares in which to protest. They do not have streets to march down. Target has become the closest thing many have to a public forum. We often hear that urban areas are more liberal and suburban ones more conservative, and we’re often told that this is because of race. That may be partly true, though cities are whiter than ever and suburbs more diverse than ever. Instead, it may be that suburbanism itself, as an ideology, breeds reactionary thinking and turns Americans into people constantly scared of a Big Bad Other. The suburban doctrine dictates that public space be limited, and conflict-free where it exists; that private space serve only as a place of commodity exchange; that surveillance, hyper-individualism, and constant vigilance are good and normal and keep people safe. It is an ideology that extends beyond the suburbs; it infects everything. Even cities, as Sarah Schulman writes in The Gentrification of the Mind, have become places where people expect convenience and calmness over culture and community. What is a life of living in a surveilled and amenity-filled high-rise and ordering all your food and objects from the Internet to your door if not a suburban life? To make matters worse, the people who have adopted this mindset do not see it as an ideology, but as the normal and right state of the world; they, as Schulman writes, “look in the mirror and think it’s a window.” So when anything, even a gay T-shirt, disrupts their view, they become scared.

[babey-fruit-bat]

Ut te mihi Juno

Caracalla X F! Reader

Summary: Caracalla presents a surprise gift for your wedding, hoping it will be to your liking Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, Happy Winter Solstice, Yule, and glad tidings to all my followers or readers! Hoping you have a delightful holiday season no matter what it looks likes or who you celebrate with!

🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿

The dawn cascaded through the large windows of your room in the imperial palace. Your gaze drifted open to the golden embroidered gown hanging in the windowsill. There wasn't much time to ponder the day's events as your handmaids flooded the room preparing a steaming bath with lily, rose and locus. You were ushered in as breakfast was brought up. A spread of cheeses, breads, fruits and a light wine was served, and as you ate your mind drifted to the memory of Caracalla. The first day you met so vivid in your mind, as if it was yesterday. It was a grueling process of selection, that quickly became easy within the first week of your arrival. You were selected along with five other noblewomen as choices for the young emperor to sort from and select a bride. You'd attended meetings, parties, formal and informal gatherings both as a group and an individual to see how well he might take to each of you. By the end of the week, it was time to attend the first gladiator tournament. You'd accompanied him as a group to not only show off his selection of brides, but to view how each of you would attend an event he cherished so much. You'd been fitted in a cobalt gown and filed in last, Caracalla standing by as each lady found their seat before taking his own. The heavy fabric snagged beneath your sandal, and you found yourself caught in his arms before your soft skin could be marred by the rough granite of the Coliseum. His grip lingered on your body for a few moments before he released you to find your seat.

It was practically tangible the jealousy that coursed through each womans veins as he kept turning to sneak glances at you during the game- the feel of your prefect skin burned into his mind. He had to have you. From that day forth an obsession with you erupted from within him. He could not eat, speak, nor dream without his brain plagued by your scent. He surprised the Senate by having every other noblewoman removed from his party of admirers. He desired only you to accompany him, always insisting you take his arm. Geta, who wished to consider a more rational proceeding had to share his concerns to his brother, who promptly shut him down, "She is entirely perfect- she fit beneath my arm as if the Gods crafted her just for me- you just don't understand." Despite initial discrepancies no one could deter Caracalla- he was determined to make you his empress, his eternal companion, his woman. His love for you had become all consuming- and the wedding arrangements consumed much of his spare time. He consulted you for most of it, agreeing to a winter wedding in January- to honor the Goddess, Juno, in hopes of a blessed and fruitful union. Each detail had been crafted to honor of you both. An ornate hall was trimmed in gold, and sapphires glittered from every corner of the ceiling. White silks lined the floors underneath tables with rows upon rows of the finest delicacies. Vases with floating candles and peacock feathers lined the tables. The opulence and detail in each piece was nearly overwhelming to your senses.

Billows of incense wafted through the temple, scents of frankincense, myrrh, and pine delighted your senses as you made your way to the holding room before the wedding. You slipped into your gown the white fabric melting onto your skin in silken pleats. Your maids tended to any finishing details adorning you with a collared necklace encrusted with diamonds and sapphires from the far East- the last gift delivered to your room from Caracalla before you'd become his. The groom paced frantically around the room, servants sent away, just him, his brother, and beloved pet- Dondas. He was brought along to help ease Calla's growing anxiety, but not about his marriage to you. He tugged at the golden pieces littering his garb groaning for time to move faster. The deep red robes swished around his feet clinking and jangling softly as his pace increased. "Brother, you've checked with the servants twice and you've ensured everything's been delivered?" Geta rose with a huff, his wine nearly sloshing out of his cup. "Yes, Carcalla, she's right here, the servants just brought her in as you finished dressing."

They both ventured over to a stand containing a large dome covered in cloth. Dondas peered closer trying to uncover it with the familiar sound of a creature hidden from view. "And you're sure she'll like this brother? I have yet to see you acquaint your darling lover with the stables or any of the animals' grounds- perhaps she will not share your love of beasts."

"You speak in lies and doubt, Geta, you do not see her eyes, powerful, understanding, and unyielding... like Dondas." He smiled looking to his Capuchin- who squeaked in amusement nibbling on the bowl of nuts and fruit specially brought to him. The pair paused gazing at the creature, happily unaware of the impeding events about to unfold. "Right... I suppose you would know her best- I only hope once she weds you, she does not have to vie for your attention alongside Dondas." Geta said with a lilt, focus back on his brother. "Certainly not- My jewel will be the most coveted in Rome! The most envied and cared for in imperial history- Just as Dondas is. I have no doubt she'll accept this offering as well, one perfect enough for my wife." "And there's no time like the present- Come now Caracalla, the priest is ready to start." With that, Geta guided him to the altar to start the ceremony. Time seemed to stand still as you glided down the aisle. Guests lined the rows of seats eager to catch a view at the empire's newest family member. As you reached the end of the aisle Caracalla took your hands in his, both repeating your vows in tender speech and promise. His warm hands felt firm on your hips as he pulled you in for a feverish kiss, desperate to finally claim you as his own. An astounding array of cheers followed as guests poured into the receiving hall quickly being served a bountiful round of courses and drink upon drink was filled and refilled.

Before the night concluded and guests started to make their way home Carcalla stood before the crowd determined to capture everyone's attention. He had indulged heavily in the party's whimsy and substances passed around on sliver platters, vases, and cups. You'd had your fair share too ending up in your new husbands' arms most of the night mimicking the stories spread far and wide about young lovers and their affectionate nature. "Great celebrates! We thank you for coming in celebration of Rome's glory, of victory, and great love found within it-" A round of cheers and raised glasses concurred with Calla's statement. "I wish to present my wife with one more precious gift. One more declaration before the festivities end, and I have you, my dear empress all to myself this night." His gaze met yours and darkened as low murmurs and a few celebratory cheers were heard from the husbands in the hall. Dondas leapt up to join him on his shoulder, chittering before ruffling his master's hair. "Bring her in, I cannot wait any longer for this!"

A fanfare of servants was summoned into the room by horns throwing a parade of flower petals down to meet you, leaning down where to sat until the strange dome was eye level. You carefully removed the sheet to find the most precious creature. Another Capuchin monkey, a female, dressed in a gown identical to your wedding gown, adorned with a ribbon tied loosely around her neck. The tiny moneys eyes peered into yours seeking warmth and refuge after spending so much of her day kept away from the festivities. You popped the latch as quickly as possible and cradled her close to your chest. "Oh, Caracalla, I really don't know what to say-" His eyes flickered with doubt for a moment, his mind returning to the words of his bother earlier. "She's just perfect! Not only for I, but Dondas, now he will also have a dear friend to spend his days with!" Your face was brighter than ever as Dondas crawled his way up to your shoulder to sneak a peek at your new pet. "We will have to name her, a name fitting for an imperial pet, a title she'll be worthy of..." Calla paused searching his drunken brain for names befitting a creature meant to represent so much to him. "What about... Juno?"

He paused to ponder your choice ""Hmm, Juno? As in the queen of the Gods?" "Yes, it's perfect- Juno will favor us as we have honored and favored her during our union- our future will be blessed, happy." Your decree fell to his ears in a hushed tone, keeping the intimate moment between yourselves and pets private from the prying ears of guests. "It really is perfect, isn't it?" He agreed taking your hand in his pressing a soft kiss to inside of your palm. Calla stood once more on top of the table, Geta rolling his eyes hoping he'd fall off. Caracalla swayed steadying himself before commanding the crowd to his attentions again. Your eyes glittered in amusement with his display of affection and devotion.

"Citizens- we delight in sharing our other newest imperial member with you tonight- Hail Juno!"

@certifiedcodbabygirl @s-lverwing

[midnightarcheress]

woke up wanting to write something with my pretty boy kyle and this was born.

cw: nsfw. f!reader. gaz obsessing over the pretty college girl by his side. implied future stalking ig? unedited. part one | part two

someone catches Kyle’s attention on the plane.

his legs are on the verge of cramping and his breath is ragged, running to board his connection flight at the last call. after falling off a helicopter twice in the last operations, he developed an uneasiness of flying, no matter the aircraft, preferring taking the train over being miles up in the air, even if it triples the travel. but this time, he just wanted to get home the fastest way possible for a much-needed night of sleep in his own bed, instead of the barely cushioned military-issued mattress.

he hopped on the plane and made his way through the corridor, gaze fixed on the numbers under the luggage rack, attentively looking for his spot. he stopped by row thirteen, eyes darting between the number and the woman on the window seat. i could’ve sworn i marked that one when i booked? Kyle checks the boarding ticket again – row 13, seat A. it’s the right seat, why is there someone on it? 

an annoyed sigh escapes his lips, gathering the energy to speak up and reclaim his rightfully bought seat. the problem is, he gets ultimately struck when the seat-thief notices him standing and turns to face him. wide eyes meet his brown ones, immediately softening at the sight of your tempting glossy lips and delicate fingers pushing a lock of hair behind your ear. pretty little thing.

“i’m sorry, is this your seat? it was empty on the first flight,” you say, an apologetic tone in your voice as you frantically close the book on your lap and shove it in a bag, “i’ll move back for you–”

“it’s alright, keep it.” he interrupts, throwing his carry-on in the rack and taking the empty middle spot beside you. he smirks at your appreciative nod and watches you settling again on the backrest, buckling the seatbelt at the shining signal hovering your heads and paying extra attention to the flight attendant announcements, even when no one around seems to care. sweet girl, so considerate to everyone.

the plane starts speeding on the runway, and from his peripheral he views your squeezed eyes and nearly white fingers gripping the armrest, breathing quickening during the gravity push of the take off. it takes a moment for you to release your tight grasp and exhale, making his hand twitch with an urge to soothe you, tell you that you’re safe.

he shakes the sensation and leans his head back, focusing on the one thing he can do to pass the time – sleep. but he can’t keep his gaze out of you, glancing to his left whenever you make a movement, no matter how small. the rapid keyboard tapping guides his irises to your laptop screen, catching a few words in a sea of what for him sounds like an alien language. DNA strand? allele? locus mutation?

he sneaks a look through your figure and his eyes land on the familiar blue logo on your hoodie, the same one he always sees on the walk from the market to his flat. uni a couple blocks from me. do you live on campus? or nearby? that neighborhood is awful at night, full of old blokes searching the pubs for a quick fuck with a naive college girl. but you seem smart, not the type to fall for their tricks, right?

the harder he tries to avoid your presence, the more you make yourself known, almost making him feel like it’s on purpose. the way your plump lips wrap on the water bottle, slight drop scaping on the corner and trailing down your neck, your flowery perfume filling his nostrils when you shift on your seat to remove the top layer of your clothing, exposing the low-cut blouse underneath and the soft roundness of your tits. is that for me, sweet girl? need a break from studying so hard? the sudden tightness of his trousers brings him back to his senses, stirring the thought out of his brain. 

keep it cool, Garrick, he repeats over and over in his mind, ignoring the tent forming on his lap and praying to whatever god is out there that you won’t see it, even while standing up and brushing your legs on his knees to get to the corridor due the cramped space. however, he doesn’t miss how the guy by his side shamelessly ogles your cleavage when you step past him, making his blood boil and his fists clench – like he wasn’t doing the same exact thing minutes before.

while you're away, he glances at your screen again, noticing the constant message notifications from the contact ‘Marcus - DO NOT ANSWER’. already looking bad for you, mate. curiosity takes hold of him and he starts reading the texts, silently chuckling at the guy’s pathetic attempts to get your attention. what did he do to earn a cold shoulder, sweetheart? did he hurt you? didn’t he pay enough attention to you? i bet he couldn’t even fuck you the way you deserve. 

he keeps skimming the messages until the grin tugging on the corners of his mouth fades into a frown when he reads ‘you’re gonna regret leaving me’. now, who’s this prick? think you’ll get away with threatening my girl?

his body stiffens when you come back, eyes darting back to the small telly in front of him when your hand brushes on his thigh while sitting once again. he hears your irritated huff when you skim through the messages, shutting the laptop with near violence. i can take care of him for you, love. you won’t have to deal with that by yourself anymore. 

the pilot’s muffled voice coming through the speakers and announcing the landing shortens his daydreams about getting rid of Marcus. it would be a great way to keep himself busy while on leave, making sure to do it fast and secretly, of course, just to protect his sweet little thing. poor guy wouldn’t even know what hit him.

the pressure change on his ear is the telltale sign of the aircraft lowering its altitude, landing gear out to hit the lane and brake the machine. he turns to the side, watching again your knitted eyebrows and how your nails dig into the seat. this time he doesn’t contain himself and his hand gently lingers over yours, the softness of it sending lightning strikes over his body and almost making him cum instantly. 

your glinting eyes find his face with a grateful gaze, lips mouthing a sugary thank you when the plane finally stops. he helps you take your handbag out of the rack with ease, using the situation to flaunt his muscles. i can even pick you up, darling. would love to feel your pretty thighs around my waist. you wouldn’t have to walk a day in your life. 

his eyes follow the sway of your hips through the airport, heart almost bursting when you wave goodbye and flash him a timid smile. you think that’s the last time you’ll see him, he thinks this is just the beginning. a name and university? he’s used to finding people with even less information. see you soon, sweet girl.

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Can we talk about Taika’s acting here?

The reaction to Izzy’s line… The slight move backwards in an instinctive act of self-preservation; the eyebrows raised in shock and confusion, then lowered into a furrow; Ed registering the full weight and implication of the words. Eyes wide; mouth going from relaxed to taut, the top lip rising ever-so slightly by the emotional jolt; shoulders rising slightly also at the small intake of breath.

Taika shows Ed processing myriad things in this moment. That he’s not safe to be the soft person he’s always hidden away. That a white man believes he has ownership over his life and death. That agency is an illusion. That he has no locus of control around his destiny. That everything’s gone full circle. Stede’s gone, and he’s back to being who he had to be in 103 and before to survive. Trapped in a phantasmagorical nightmare in which his self and identity is distorted, manipulated and controlled by another.

And Taika conveys all this with a backwards-lean and a few muscles in his face. It’s god-tier.

[room-surprise]

Kabru from Dungeon Meshi's Ethnic origin

(Masterpost of evidence available here now!)

I've seen folks talking about this, which makes me SOOOOO happy. I've been trying to tell people that Kabru is *some kind* of fantasy version of Indian since at least March of 2023, which is when I finished reading what was available of Dungeon Meshi at the time. You may have seen my post in the Kabru tag about his name suggesting that he's of Nepali origin! I'll go into this in a LOT more detail when I finally publish my big Dungeon Meshi research paper (soon, I promise, I hope), but this is such a wonderful win for Kabru fans that I wanted to make a post about it! So many helpful fans were able to identify the sweet Kabru's trying to talk about is rasgulla, which means I didn't have to actually do any research to figure it out like I normally would have. Though since I know Kabru's meant to be from someplace like India, it wouldn't have been hard to search for "Indian dessert white ball" and figure it out.

Rasgulla (literally "syrup filled ball") is a dessert popular in the eastern part of South Asia. It is made from ball-shaped dumplings of chhena dough, cooked in light sugar syrup. This is done until the syrup permeates the dumplings.

While it is near-universally agreed upon that the dessert originated in the eastern Indian subcontinent, the exact locus of origin is disputed between locations such as West Bengal, Bangladesh, and Odisha. The name rasgulla is derived from the words ras ("juice") and gulla ("ball"), and other names for the dish include rasagulla, rossogolla, roshogolla, rasagola, rasagolla, and rasbhari or rasbari. Rasbari is the name of it in Nepal, so I think that's probably what Kabru would have called it if Milsiril hadn't interrupted him.

[levans44]

leave me with nothing when I come down

pairing: steve rogers x fatal touch!reader

summary: The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.

Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.

warnings: 18+ SMUT, just pure filth, some angst, FWB, hate fucking, heavy choking, breath play, sub steve rogers, subtle fdom, reader has fatal touch meaning she can't make bare skin contact with anyone without killing them

word count: 1.8k

a/n: I... don't even have words for this one, really. just that steve rogers with a choking kink and submissive streak would heal me.

"Second time this week.”

“Shut up. Take that shit off.”

A 2 a.m. text is all it takes. 

He’s at your door, helmet in hand, hair wild from the ride—straight off the tarmac, still carrying the scent of Marrakesh on his skin.

There's no small talk, no kissing, no preamble.  

It’s not like he needs it anyway, the strain of him evident against the kevlar—a monument raised in devotion. 

Because out there, beyond the sanctum of your studio apartment, he’s a god of war—sharp lines, discipline incarnate. Issuing orders like edicts and delivering punishing blows in the name of combat training. 

But in here? He’s just a man. 

Yours.

His uniform sloughs off like old skin—discarded offerings marking a trail to the altar of your living room. The shield leans haphazardly against the doorframe, forgotten.

There’s a dumb, boyish grin on his face when you corner him against your threadbare couch, climbing over him and settling roughly in his lap. And when your bare thighs slide up next to his own, caging him beneath your heat, his lashes flutter involuntarily—because the first touch is always an adjustment, no matter how many times he’s been here. 

Like a live wire pressed to his skin, ripping through his veins and setting every nerve ablaze. 

All the white-hot brilliance of a collapsing star; tiny supernovas erupting under his skin, leaving behind a constellation of heat marking your divine path. 

You narrow your eyes at him, nostrils flaring, yet your dainty fingers still tremble when they rise up to his chest.

The locus of your power—where your touch is most potent—laid flat over the flushed skin covering his heart. The thrum of his pulse flutters against your palm, reassuring.

Still beating.

The first time you'd touched him, you’d been so cautious—fingertips barely grazing his skin, sending sparks across the top of his knuckles. Yanked your hand back just as quickly, wide-eyed and breathless as if you expected him to crumble to the ground in front of you.  

Instead, he’d caught your quivering hand in his, grip warm and unyielding.

It’s alright. 

Guided it under his shirt, pressing your palm flat against his chest, just left of where the five-point insignia's etched into his skin. He'd kept your hand there for a long while, letting you feel the warmth of human flesh, the steady rise and fall of a moving ribcage besides your own—maybe for the first time.

Met your gaze as if to say:

See? Still beating.

Disbelief and trepidation in your eyes when you stared back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But when it didn’t—when he didn’t—you’d gone straight for his lips instead.  

“Where’d you go, Rogers?”

Your distant warning calls him back, punctuated by a soft tsk as your hips tease slow circles over his lap. One hand braced on his shoulder for leverage, his stomach glistening with your arousal. 

There’s something chiding in the furrow of your brows, the purse of your lips—like you’re disappointed that he’s managed to remain in one piece. Like setting him alight was the only absolution.

He blinks, still drowning in the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming burn reduced to a steady buzzing as his eyes focus back on you. 

But it’s too late—you’ve found other ways to keep his mind tethered.

Your arm slides behind your back, finding the head of his cock, swollen red and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. As soon as your fingers graze the tip, his breath hitches, abs clenching like he’d taken a blow to the gut. His hands shoot up to grip your hips, palms searing at the contact. 

An appeased grin touches your lips as you stroke him once, twice, then sink down in a single, fluid motion, the heat of your body enveloping him whole. 

“Oh, fffu—“ 

His mouth falls open, a half-formed hymn forming on his tongue, the rest swallowed by the ruthless pace you set.

Both hands anchored to his chest as you lift back up, until just the head of his cock is enveloped by the tight, wet ring of your entrance. You swivel your hips in a slow, teasing circle, testing his restraint before sinking all the way back down. Then you'd start over from the top, the weight of your thrusts heavy and relentless—eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back as if you’re basking in the first downpour after a lifelong drought. 

He tracks your every movement, eyes lazy and half-lidded, head lolled against the back of the couch. The thick column of his neck bares itself to you, his jugular pulsing a steady offering.

And being the merciful god you are, you take it.

Four dainty fingers curl around his throat, your thumb pressing just enough to feel his breath catch, his pulse thundering under your grip. Searing heat shoots up his neck, sharp static rippling across the flesh.

And as his vision grows hazy around the edges, you begin to glow at its center. Your silhouette illuminated by a blinding radiance as you bask in his pain—the ache, the burn, all laid bare for you.

“That’s it, show me.”

His voice breaks out gravelly and thick, nearly unrecognizable with you pressing down on his vocal cords. His hands grow restless, quick to worship the curve of your hips, your stomach, before sliding up under your shirt. Calloused fingertips find your nipples, pebbled and straining against the flimsy cotton, and pinch hard enough to elicit a choked gasp. He smiles as you glare and press harder against his neck, betrayed by the way you clench around him when he repeats the gesture. 

The only man who can withstand your touch without succumbing to its power. His super-soldier healing ability absorbing your raw, unbridled energy, strong enough to send anyone else into a permanent coma with just a moment’s touch. 

And there’s a thought in there somewhere, deep in the corner of his sex-fuddled, oxygen-deprived brain, about something Sam once told him. How some people grow so accustomed to pain that they seek it out—caught in a relentless cycle of self-destruction and sabotage, never having known a life without it. 

Sound familiar, Steve?

And maybe the fact that this was what he was thinking about, in the midst of being fucked into oblivion, was a good example as any to prove Sam’s point. But he shoves that thought aside too, tossing it onto the ever-growing pile, stacked miles high. 

Like all the others, it’ll have to wait. When you’re not grinding your hips and arching into his touch, so warm and tight and perfectly fitted around him.

So he pushes you harder, meeting your thrusts and pinching your nipples sore until you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Draws you to the edge, just like he knows how, that line where control and reason blur into nothing but raw sensation. 

His Adam’s apple bobs under your palm when he swallows thickly, smiling: 

“You’re gonna cum, aren't you?”

You let out a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, whispering as if you’re pleading for forgiveness. 

“Shut up. Shut up.” Your prayers grow louder still.

“God, just fucking—”

He meets your glare with a steady gaze, the subtext in his eyes clear as day:

Do it. Try me.

You slow the relentless rotation of your hips, brows furrowing as you lift your other hand. It hovers for a moment, uncertain, before draping over the one already pressed to his neck. 

The added pressure’s enough to actually render him starved for air, back arching as his breathing grows shallow. Pressure builds up in his ears, the blood rushing to his head and muffling the world around him, leaving him with only the thrum of his own pulse and the filthy slaps coming from between his legs, wet and frenzied as you pick up your pace.  

Your brows are knitted together, a bead of sweat rolling down the curve of your temple. Knees rubbed raw against the scratchy upholstery as you roll your hips over and over, hands still fixed over his throat. With no room to swallow, spit starts to pool in his mouth, the same time your rhythm falters, a familiar pattern of spasms signaling your end. 

He’s right there with you, teetering on the brink—whatever breaths he can muster getting shorter, faster. It leaves him lightheaded and reeling, the serum working overtime to absorb the onslaught of your energy. 

And if the thought of his healing ability stretching out so thin, enough that you could actually choke him to death, only makes his dick swell inside you, then… fuck it. He likes the noises you make anyway, eyes rolling back every time it finds that tender spot deep within you. 

The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.

Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.

He drops one hand to find your clit with deft precision, desperate to see you tip over the edge before his lungs give out. Rubs tight, small circles, just above where his dick’s plunging into your heat, until you're twitching violently against him, collapsing forward with a sharp, fractured cry. 

Your hands release around his throat, flying up to grip his hair instead, and the sudden rush of oxygen precipitates his own release as he bucks up into you, a strangled groan ripped from his abused throat.

He finds solace in the crook of your neck, the cradle of something divine, as light bursts behind his eyes. He comes in thick, pulsing ropes, his body collapsing under the weight of the sensation, trembling as he’s made undone by your touch. 

He blinks away black dots from his vision in the comedown, ears still ringing as you shuffle off his lap. You raise a soft tissue in his direction, smiling at his defeated form—legs spread and chest heaving—and grant him a few more breaths before he lifts himself off the couch.

“Same time next week?”

"Fuck off, Rogers.”

With a tired huff, you snatch up his uniform off your floor, shoving it against his chest. He smiles, letting his hand brush against yours, savoring that electric surge one last time. 

His shield feels feather-light when he slings it across his back, giving you one last look before you slam the door in his face. He doesn’t miss the blush that bloomed across your cheeks, just seconds before you averted your eyes, mirroring the one on his own face. 

Because the truth is, he needs this just as much as you do. Maybe more.

Someone to break the parts of him that never healed quite right, snapping them clean so he can piece them back together. 

As he stares at the faded mahogany of your apartment door, that familiar high begins to settle in—a fleeting but vivid taste of what it felt like before the serum, when cuts stayed open and bruises remained tender for weeks. 

And as the long-lost weight of exhaustion starts to seep into his bones, making his eyelids grow heavy, he rejoices. 

He’s treading on nothing but air when he bounds down the stairs of your building, giddy with anticipation for a night of deep, unbroken sleep. 

He’ll dream of you until the next time he’s back.

[harbingersecho]

"... we'll photoshop it."

[grison-in-space]

Dude. That Great Dane is not even red/liver/brown. It's a sable/fawn dog. The basset hound is the same, and both of them are base black--AKA not even holding the same gene OP is talking about. It's harder to tell on the cocker but I think that one is also based black ee yellow; either way, it's a yellow dog, not a brown one. (If it's bb ee brown, it's still a yellow dog, just like a Bb ee dog is still a yellow dog.)

It's not confusing if OP refers only to names that are specific to bb liver/chocolate/brown and completely bypasses the godawful morass of "red" and "tan" and "fawn" and "sable". And yes, all the rest of those dogs are brown.

My thoughts on dog colors

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Microsoft pinky swears that THIS TIME they’ll make security a priority

One June 20, I'm live onstage in LOS ANGELES for a recording of the GO FACT YOURSELF podcast. On June 21, I'm doing an ONLINE READING for the LOCUS AWARDS at 16hPT. On June 22, I'll be in OAKLAND, CA for a panel and a keynote at the LOCUS AWARDS.

As the old saying goes, "When someone tells you who they are and you get fooled again, shame on you." That goes double for Microsoft, especially when it comes to security promises.

Microsoft is, was, always has been, and always will be a rotten company. At every turn, throughout their history, they have learned the wrong lessons, over and over again.

That starts from the very earliest days, when the company was still called "Micro-Soft." Young Bill Gates was given a sweetheart deal to supply the operating system for IBM's PC, thanks to his mother's connection. The nepo-baby enlisted his pal, Paul Allen (whom he'd later rip off for billions) and together, they bought someone else's OS (and took credit for creating it – AKA, the "Musk gambit").

Microsoft then proceeded to make a fortune by monopolizing the OS market through illegal, collusive arrangements with the PC clone industry – an industry that only existed because they could source third-party PC ROMs from Phoenix:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/08/ibm-pc-compatible-how-adversarial-interoperability-saved-pcs-monopolization

Bill Gates didn't become one of the richest people on earth simply by emerging from a lucky orifice; he also owed his success to vigorous antitrust enforcement. The IBM PC was the company's first major initiative after it was targeted by the DOJ for a 12-year antitrust enforcement action. IBM tapped its vast monopoly profits to fight the DOJ, spending more on outside counsel to fight the DOJ antitrust division than the DOJ spent on all its antitrust lawyers, every year, for 12 years.

IBM's delaying tactic paid off. When Reagan took the White House, he let IBM off the hook. But the company was still seriously scarred by its ordeal, and when the PC project kicked off, the company kept the OS separate from the hardware (one of the DOJ's major issues with IBM's previous behavior was its vertical monopoly on hardware and software). IBM didn't hire Gates and Allen to provide it with DOS because it was incapable of writing a PC operating system: they did it to keep the DOJ from kicking down their door again.

The post-antitrust, gunshy IBM kept delivering dividends for Microsoft. When IBM turned a blind eye to the cloned PC-ROM and allowed companies like Compaq, Dell and Gateway to compete directly with Big Blue, this produced a whole cohort of customers for Microsoft – customers Microsoft could play off on each other, ensuring that every PC sold generated income for Microsoft, creating a wide moat around the OS business that kept other OS vendors out of the market. Why invest in making an OS when every hardware company already had an exclusive arrangement with Microsoft?

The IBM PC story teaches us two things: stronger antitrust enforcement spurs innovation and opens markets for scrappy startups to grow to big, important firms; as do weaker IP protections.

Microsoft learned the opposite: monopolies are wildly profitable; expansive IP protects monopolies; you can violate antitrust laws so long as you have enough monopoly profits rolling in to outspend the government until a Republican bootlicker takes the White House (Microsoft's antitrust ordeal ended after GW Bush stole the 2000 election and dropped the charges against them). Microsoft embodies the idea that you either die a rebel hero or live long enough to become the evil emperor you dethroned.

From the first, Microsoft has pursued three goals:

Get too big to fail;

Get too big to jail;

Get too big to care.

It has succeeded on all three counts. Much of Microsoft's enduring power comes from succeeded IBM as the company that mediocre IT managers can safely buy from without being blamed for the poor quality of Microsoft's products: "Nobody ever got fired for buying Microsoft" is 2024's answer to "Nobody ever got fired for buying IBM."

Microsoft's secret sauce is impunity. The PC companies that bundle Windows with their hardware are held blameless for the glaring defects in Windows. The IT managers who buy company-wide Windows licenses are likewise insulated from the rage of the workers who have to use Windows and other Microsoft products.

Microsoft doesn't have to care if you hate it because, for the most part, it's not selling to you. It's selling to a few decision-makers who can be wined and dined and flattered. And since we all have to use its products, developers have to target its platform if they want to sell us their software.

This rarified position has afforded Microsoft enormous freedom to roll out harebrained "features" that made things briefly attractive for some group of developers it was hoping to tempt into its sticky-trap. Remember when it put a Turing-complete scripting environment into Microsoft Office and unleashed a plague of macro viruses that wiped out years worth of work for entire businesses?

https://web.archive.org/web/20060325224147/http://www3.ca.com/securityadvisor/newsinfo/collateral.aspx?cid=33338

It wasn't just Office; Microsoft's operating systems have harbored festering swamps of godawful defects that were weaponized by trolls, script kiddies, and nation-states:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/EternalBlue

Microsoft blamed everyone except themselves for these defects, claiming that their poor code quality was no worse than others, insisting that the bulging arsenal of Windows-specific malware was the result of being the juiciest target and thus the subject of the most malicious attention.

Even if you take them at their word here, that's still no excuse. Microsoft didn't slip and accidentally become an operating system monopolist. They relentlessly, deliberately, illegally pursued the goal of extinguishing every OS except their own. It's completely foreseeable that this dominance would make their products the subject of continuous attacks.

There's an implicit bargain that every monopolist makes: allow me to dominate my market and I will be a benevolent dictator who spends his windfall profits on maintaining product quality and security. Indeed, if we permit "wasteful competition" to erode the margins of operating system vendors, who will have a surplus sufficient to meet the security investment demands of the digital world?

But monopolists always violate this bargain. When faced with the decision to either invest in quality and security, or hand billions of dollars to their shareholders, they'll always take the latter. Why wouldn't they? Once they have a monopoly, they don't have to worry about losing customers to a competitor, so why invest in customer satisfaction? That's how Google can piss away $80b on a stock buyback and fire 12,000 technical employees at the same time as its flagship search product (with a 90% market-share) is turning into an unusable pile of shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

Microsoft reneged on this bargain from day one, and they never stopped. When the company moved Office to the cloud, it added an "analytics" suite that lets bosses spy on and stack-rank their employees ("Sorry, fella, Office365 says you're the slowest typist in the company, so you're fired"). Microsoft will also sell you internal data on the Office365 usage of your industry competitors (they'll sell your data to your competitors, too, natch). But most of all, Microsoft harvest, analyzes and sells this data for its own purposes:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/25/the-peoples-amazon/#clippys-revenge

Leave aside how creepy, gross and exploitative this is – it's also incredibly reckless. Microsoft is creating a two-way conduit into the majority of the world's businesses that insider threats, security services and hackers can exploit to spy on and wreck Microsoft's customers' business. You don't get more "too big to care" than this.

Or at least, not until now. Microsoft recently announced a product called "Recall" that would record every keystroke, click and screen element, nominally in the name of helping you figure out what you've done and either do it again, or go back and fix it. The problem here is that anyone who gains access to your system – your boss, a spy, a cop, a Microsoft insider, a stalker, an abusive partner or a hacker – now has access to everything, on a platter. Naturally, this system – which Microsoft billed as ultra-secure – was wildly insecure and after a series of blockbuster exploits, the company was forced to hit pause on the rollout:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2024/06/microsoft-delays-data-scraping-recall-feature-again-commits-to-public-beta-test/

For years, Microsoft waged a war on the single most important security practice in software development: transparency. This is the company that branded the GPL Free Software license a "virus" and called open source "a cancer." The company argued that allowing public scrutiny of code would be a disaster because bad guys would spot and weaponize defects.

This is "security through obscurity" and it's an idea that was discredited nearly 500 years ago with the advent of the scientific method. The crux of that method: we are so good at bullshiting ourselves into thinking that our experiment was successful that the only way to make sure we know anything is to tell our enemies what we think we've proved so they can try to tear us down.

Or, as Bruce Schneier puts it: "Anyone can design a security system that you yourself can't think of a way of breaking. That doesn't mean it works, it just means that it works against people stupider than you."

And yet, Microsoft – whose made more widely and consequentially exploited software than anyone else in the history of the human race – claimed that free and open code was insecure, and spent millions on deceptive PR campaigns intended to discredit the scientific method in favor of a kind of software alchemy, in which every coder toils in secret, assuring themselves that drinking mercury is the secret to eternal life.

Access to source code isn't sufficient to make software secure – nothing about access to code guarantees that anyone will review that code and repair its defects. Indeed, there've been some high profile examples of "supply chain attacks" in the free/open source software world:

https://www.securityweek.com/supply-chain-attack-major-linux-distributions-impacted-by-xz-utils-backdoor/

But there's no good argument that this code would have been more secure if it had been harder for the good guys to spot its bugs. When it comes to secure code, transparency is an essential, but it's not a sufficency.

The architects of that campaign are genuinely awful people, and yet they're revered as heroes by Microsoft's current leadership. There's Steve "Linux Is Cancer" Ballmer, star of Propublica's IRS Files, where he is shown to be the king of "tax loss harvesting":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/24/tax-loss-harvesting/#mego

And also the most prominent example of the disgusting tax cheats practiced by rich sports-team owners:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#economic-substance-doctrine

Microsoft may give lip service to open source these days (mostly through buying, stripmining and enclosing Github) but Ballmer's legacy lives on within the company, through its wildly illegal tax-evasion tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/13/pour-encoragez-les-autres/#micros-tilde-one

But Ballmer is an angel compared to his boss, Bill Gates, last seen some paragraphs above, stealing the credit for MS DOS from Tim Paterson and billions of dollars from his co-founder Paul Allen. Gates is an odious creep who made billions through corrupt tech industry practices, then used them to wield influence over the world's politics and policy. The Gates Foundation (and Gates personally) invented vaccine apartheid, helped kill access to AIDS vaccines in Sub-Saharan Africa, then repeated the trick to keep covid vaccines out of reach of the Global South:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/13/public-interest-pharma/#gates-foundation

The Gates Foundation wants us to think of it as malaria-fighting heroes, but they're also the leaders of the war against public education, and have been key to the replacement of public schools with charter schools, where the poorest kids in America serve as experimental subjects for the failed pet theories of billionaire dilettantes:

https://www.ineteconomics.org/perspectives/blog/millionaire-driven-education-reform-has-failed-heres-what-works

(On a personal level, Gates is also a serial sexual abuser who harassed multiple subordinates into having sexual affairs with him:)

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/01/13/technology/microsoft-sexual-harassment-policy-review.html

The management culture of Microsoft started rotten and never improved. It's a company with corruption and monopoly in its blood, a firm that would always rather build market power to insulate itself from the consequences of making defective products than actually make good products. This is true of every division, from cloud computing:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/28/other-peoples-computers/#clouded-over

To gaming:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/27/convicted-monopolist/#microsquish

No one should ever trust Microsoft to do anything that benefits anyone except Microsoft. One of the low points in the otherwise wonderful surge of tech worker labor organizing was when the Communications Workers of America endorsed Microsoft's acquisition of Activision because Microsoft promised not to union-bust Activision employees. They lied:

https://80.lv/articles/qa-workers-contracted-by-microsoft-say-they-were-fired-for-trying-to-unionize/

Repeatedly:

https://www.reuters.com/technology/activision-fired-staff-using-strong-language-about-remote-work-policy-union-2023-03-01/

Why wouldn't they lie? They've never faced any consequences for lying in the past. Remember: the secret to Microsoft's billions is impunity.

Which brings me to Solarwinds. Solarwinds is an enterprise management tool that allows IT managers to see, patch and control the computers they oversee. Foreign spies hacked Solarwinds and accessed a variety of US federal agencies, including National Nuclear Security Administration (who oversee nuclear weapons stockpiles), the NIH, and the Treasury Department.

When the Solarwinds story broke, Microsoft strenuously denied that the Solarwinds hack relied on exploiting defects in Microsoft software. They said this to everyone: the press, the Pentagon, and Congress.

This was a lie. As Renee Dudley and Doris Burke reported for Propublica, the Solarwinds attack relied on defects in the SAML authentication system that Microsoft's own senior security staff had identified and repeatedly warned management about. Microsoft's leadership ignored these warnings, buried the research, prohibited anyone from warning Microsoft customers, and sidelined Andrew Harris, the researcher who discovered the defect:

https://www.propublica.org/article/microsoft-solarwinds-golden-saml-data-breach-russian-hackers

The single most consequential cyberattack on the US government was only possible because Microsoft decided not to fix a profound and dangerous bug in its code, and declined to warn anyone who relied on this defective software.

Yesterday, Microsoft president Brad Smith testified about this to Congress, and promised that the company would henceforth prioritize security over gimmicks like AI:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/06/microsoft-in-damage-control-mode-says-it-will-prioritize-security-over-ai/

Despite all the reasons to mistrust this promise, the company is hoping Congress will believe it. More importantly, it's hoping that the Pentagon will believe it, because the Pentagon is about to award billions in free no-bid military contract profits to Microsoft:

https://www.axios.com/2024/05/17/pentagon-weighs-microsoft-licensing-upgrades

You know what? I bet they'll sell this lie. It won't be the first time they've convinced Serious People in charge of billions of dollars and/or lives to ignore that all-important maxim, "When someone tells you who they are and you get fooled again, shame on you."

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/14/patch-tuesday/#fool-me-twice-we-dont-get-fooled-again

[identifying-cat-phenotypes]

Are the aristocats coats possible? Could an all white cat (f) have a solid black (m), an orange (m) and a solid white(f) kittens?

(thanks and sorry english isn't my first or second language)

You could do a lot with them, that's for sure! Here are what the Aristocats family looks like, for those that don't know/can't remember.

Ignore O'Malley. This isn't about him.

It's possible, very possible actually, ESPECIALLY with the fact that we don't know the sire. That is a lot of creative freedom I can work with. I'll go into depth on each kitten's genetics below the cut :)

I want to have fun with this. If you know a bit about cat genetics, you'll quickly see how convoluted I make these answers because genetics are fun. Silly kitties with their silly genes and I will have FUN damnit!

Duchess's white is epistatic over everything. That means, we can really go crazy with what is under there. Eumelanin colors, red, tabby, solid, inhibitor, it can be whatever.

Therefor, I'm calling her a (technical) cryptic tortie. Below are the expressions I've decided to give her.

O/o, -/- W/w, l/l

I'll keep her black locus blank, as that will be affected by the sire. I'll be doing them last, so it'll be done last too.

Now, if you look at Berlioz, you'll notice something. He has a lighter gray stomach! That means I have to give him inhibitor at some point. You can also see this on Toulouse! However, since he is red, I'm passing it off as tabby. No inhibitor for him.

Marie is easy, so I'll just do her right now. The only note I have is that the sire HAS to be L/l in order for Marie to stay longhaired.

l/l, W/w

Onto the other kittens!

To stay as close to canon, Berlioz must have:

Black self (B/-)

Inhibitor (I/-) <- capital i

No white (w/w)

To stay as close to canon, Toulouse must have:

Red tabby (O/Y)

No white (w/w)

This means that we know EXACTLY what the sire has to have. It has to not have white, and have inhibitor. It's quite simple! However, I like to have fun.

Simple Genetics:

Duchess: l/l, O/o, B/B, W/w, i/i longhaired white (black self tortie) Unnamed Sire: L/l, o/Y, B/B, w/w, I/i shorthaired Marie: l/l, O/o, B/B, W/w, I/i longhaired white (black smoke tortoiseshell) Berlioz: L/l, o/Y, B/B, w/w, I/i shirthaired black smoke Toulouse: L/l, O/Y, B/B, w/w, i/i shorthaired red false-tabby

Now, you may be saying, "Robin, what possibly could be next? You've done all their genetics!" This is true! I just did it, however, I like to have a LOT of fun here. Fictional cats (cough. Warriors. cough) are my puppets, and I make them dance to my own rhythm.

Lets have fun with epistatic traits. Lets make these cats as far away from canon (but still technically recognizable) as possible. The world is MY oyster.

Duchess is now a longhaired cinnamon (b1/b1) self (a/a) cryptic tortie. Color-pointed (cs/c) with full white. The sire is now a shorthaired (L/l) black-silver (B/b1, I/i) tabby (A/a) with high tabby-breakage (spotted tabby).

So... onto:

Mod Robin's Funplex Cat-Genetics Note: I'm having fun. This is not accurate to real life probabilities.

Duchess: l/l, o/o, b1/b1, a/a, cs/c, W/w, i/i longhaired white (cinnamon colorpoint, carrying albinism) Unnamed Sire: L/l, o/Y, B/b1, A/a, C/c, w/w, I/i shorthaired black-silver spotted tabby (carrying albinism) Marie: l/l, o/o, B/b1, A/a, c/c, W/w, I/i longhaired albino white (black-silver spotted tabby) Berlioz: L/l, o/Y, B/b1, a/a, cs/c, w/w, I/i shorthaired smoke sealpoint (carrying albinism) Toulouse: L/l, o/Y, b1/b1, A/a, C/cs, w/w, i/i shorthaired cinnamon spotted tabby (carrying pointing)

yay! kitties :) !!!! <3333

i wrote this at 3pm and a dream okay. please tell me about any mistakes, and dont get mad at me for probability. I WILL have fun in my kitty echochamber and I WILL like it :)

signed, mod robin

[drdemonprince]

i just FIND IT INTERESTING that the people who say transmisandry is a unique and real and important to discuss form of oppression dont ever talk about, say, misandrynoir or society's hatred of disabled men or fat men or any other intersections being "misandry" and the experiences of other oppressed groups.

It makes exactly 0% sense to treat "misandry" as a real locus of oppression that can intersect with other oppressions only in the context of talking about trans men, and never doing it with anything else.

Black men sure as fuck experience racism in a very particular way. but to date ive never heard someone attempt to call that the intersection between misandry and anti-Blackness, because misandry doesn't fucking exist.

either you believe misandry is a thing or your dont. if you dont think misandry is real, transmisandry as a concept is completely nonsensical. if you dont understand this please read about what intersectionality actually is and how it works and stop co-opting the scholarship of a Black woman legal scholar in order to complain about how there are more trans femme serial killers in movies than trans masc ones or whatever the hell you think youre being left out of.

most of the transmisandry posters are white trans men with a self-victimization complex who cant imagine they have both some very genuine experiences of oppression (transphobia or transmisia, whatever you wanna call it) and also significant privileges. its just so fucking transparent it makes me want to join my chinchilla in chewing the walls

[psychotrenny]

There's a lot to be said about Zambia's relationship with South Africa, especially during the Apartheid era. A nation with legal political independence, like much of "post-colonial" Sub-Saharan Africa the deep rooted structures of Colonialism and ongoing pressure of Imperialism have kept it economically dependent on the Imperial Core. Like much of Southern Africa, South Africa specifically is a major locus of that dependence. Indeed, the primary focus of South Africa's foreign policy towards its immediate neighbours, the "Frontline States" in the struggle against Apartheid, was to keep things that way using the most suitable combination of soft and hard power that South Africa had at its disposal.

Now Zambia got off lightly in terms of the military threat it faced, suffering no major South-African proxy wars and relatively few commando raids against the personnel and offices of anti-apartheid resistance that had set up on Zambian soil. The Apartheid regime saw Kenneth Kaunda, the Zambian head of state from 1964 (the year of Zambian political independence) to 1991 (by which time Apartheid was beginning to be dismantled), as a relative moderate due his anti-communist sentiments. Despite Kaunda's outspoken opposition to the Apartheid system, he maintained strong economic ties with South Africa. Zambia's copper mines had their ownership nationalised but were still managed and operated by the same companies, to the point that the pre-independence culture of racism remained alive and well decades later and many Zambian engineers left the mining industry for the private sector as soon as they could due to the discrimination they faced from their mostly white (often South African) managers. A similar arrangement existed for Emerald mines, an industry that only began development in the 1970s and remained in its infancy until the 1990s, remained largely in private hands.

Yet at the same time Zambia was still an independent African nation. On top of verbally denouncing Apartheid to the international community, Kaunda's regime offered material assistance and free access to the anti-colonial resistance movements that toppled the Portuguese Empire and Rhodesia while destabilising South African apartheid to the point of dissolution. Despite the burden of exploitation the masses faced from both foreign imperialists and their local collaborators, conditions for the black majority of Zambia were significantly less vicious than for those living under Apartheid in South Africa and Namibia. Relations between Zambia and South Africa were messy, complex and often contradictory but they were like this because Zambia was very much its own nation. While the shadow of Apartheid is something that must always be taken into account while discussing Zambia in this period, especially in the context of South African investment, this country was much more than an extension of South Africa. You can't talk about it like it's some glorified Bantustan

And yet for most people none of that matters. All Southern Africa is the same to them; who gives a shit about the actual history of struggle? The whole "Elon Musk's dad own a South African emerald mine" is incredibly stupid because it's a severely misleading distortion of the facts that only gets passed around due to widespread attitudes of chauvinistic ignorance towards Africa. Now Errol Musk's statements about his involvement in the Southern African emerald trade are inconsistent; at times he claims to have owned a stake in an emerald mine while at others he claims to have merely traded in the gems. But either way, the gems in question are Zambian and not South African and that's a distinction that matters.

Additionally, the spread of this rumour comes from a grossly oversimplified view of Imperialist exploitation in Africa. While the mining industry is an important vector by which wealth is extracted from the continent, it is far from the only one. Errol Musk did not make his fortune from emeralds; he was an electrical engineer who went own to invest in a wide assortment of businesses from auto parts stores to tourist lodges. A beneficiary of Apartheid for sure, operating in an economic system made possible only through the brutal exploitation of millions of Africans, but in a much more sophisticated way than the cartoonish caricature of a mine overseer a lot of people seem to have in mind.

The point must also be made that most mining in Africa takes the form of modern industrial enterprises operated by voluntary workers who, while still incredibly exploited in terms of the value they produce compared to what they receive, tend to be relatively well paid by local standards. Even in apartheid South Africa and Namibia itself, mining jobs were considered among the most desirable work an African could get. The image of slaves held at gunpoint to dig with shovels, distorted half memories of Sierra Leonean diamonds and Congolese Coltan, do not represent the reality of Imperialism in most of the continent.

The whole "Musk Emerald Mine" discourse is an all around outstanding example of ignorance, made even more egregious by the ostensible "progressive" beliefs of those who engage in it. "Leftists" who care little for what's actually happening to the people of the Imperial Periphery, who see the suffering of Africans as little more than a cheap way to mock an individual they don't like. Maybe it would pay to open a book or two before you open your mouth. Or at least look at a world map and see the funny solid line that exists between "South Africa" and "Zambia"