#those opposed to the system but so do those that fight for it

[asha-mage]

I think, on reflection, I agree with the choice to split Hurin's role between Errol and Elyas- he's one of my favorite minor characters in the series but I can be objective and admit he's an easy cut. But it dose leave me wondering how their going to be bring in an important element of Rand's character: the noblesse oblige that Hurin instilled in him.

One of the important themes of WoT overall is people's relationship to power and government. Jordan is fascinated with the idea of how dynasty, noble houses, monarchies, etc get started, how they function, and how they fall apart. Jordan spends a lot of time and energy exploring both their virtues and their common failings, and one of the things that makes his writing unique is that he's not trying to sell a certain PoV to the audience: he is neither in the Monarchy Good or Monarchy Bad camp, but instead is interested in showing different sides and elements to these systems through his characters and conflicts.

This relates to Hurin because as much as he gets mocked sometimes for being 'obsessed with following a Lord' what Hurin is actually expressing is 1) the prevalent attitude of common people in his society and 2) a very human impulse on which these sorts of systems are based. Hurin wants to believe their is someone in charge whose sole job it is to take care of everything and make it right- when everything falls out from under him and he finds himself literally in situation completely beyond his depth, he looks to Rand to be that person, and the narrative does not judge him for it. Hurin is used to living in a system where their is a class of people whose whole existence is (supposed to be) dedicated to protecting, leading, and aiding the common folk. This is alien to Rand (who was after all raised by anarchist tax evaders), but he comes to view it as a duty and a responsibility, and one that he can't take lightly. A Whole Person is putting their faith in him, and that is both an honor and a burden, but one that is critical to the noble-commoner relationship.

This sense of Noble Obligation informs sharply Rand's relationship to different aristocrats throughout the rest of the series, especially the justice he dishes out to the High Lords of Tear (who have forsaken that obligation to instead regard their status as a right). It also become a huge part how he handles being The Dragon. After all, what is being the savior of the world, but someone with the ultimate duty, the ultimate obligation to set everything aside, from their heart to their humanity, in order to protect the innocent?

I don't doubt they'll bring this in some other way of course, but I am a touch sad to see Hurin's part in it end up on the cutting room floor.

[togglesbloggle]

You Aren't Supposed to Win

There's a species of post on Tumblr that's not uncommon: explainers about neurotypical social interactions for the benefit of the neurodivergent. Others, in an adjacent genre, are vent-posts or bewildered people expressing exasperation and impatience with neurotypical social rituals. And these are usually fine as far as they go, but there's a sort of deficit or hole in them that I think tends to go un-addressed.

Basically, a lot of these explainers are very reasonably helping readers to navigate a system for some desired outcome (getting a job, finding a date, or other such things), but with the understanding that a failure to get the desired outcome is a failure of the system. And that's... only kind of true.

Neurotypical social interactions can be a very complex mix of collaborative and competitive enterprises. The ratio between those things can shift on a dime, it can be really hard to figure out where on the spectrum you are at any given moment, and this is the system working as intended. Or at least, as the players in the game intend, which isn't always quite the same thing.

I don't want to overstate this too much; standard social interactions aren't a fight to the death or anything. Typical examples are more like a preponderance of cooperation, but with some jockeying for a larger share of the rewards that follow from a shared project. Or, perhaps, attempts to spend the least effort in a group project, while receiving a full share of the reward.

The thing about this is, the presence of an antagonistic element within these interactions means that perfect legibility is opposed to most participants' goals for the interaction. There is a degree of confusion and uncertainty that is quite deliberate and instrumentally useful. If a particular partnership is going to pivot to 'pvp mode', it is absolutely in each participants' interest to be the first one to defect, and to mask that defection for as long as possible; perfect transparency prevents them from being able to do so, and they can and will interpret requests for perfect transparency as being hostile acts.

At the same time, admitting any of this is also a loss of strategic advantage during adversarial interactions, so it's one of the hardest things to get people to admit. It's even hard for people to notice that they're doing it, because evolution favors mentalities that keep as much of this as possible subconscious; it's easier to defect without warning if you never consciously think of yourself as defecting at all. So explicit discussions of this are quite rare. (There is, however, an entire genre of party games designed to bring them to the fore and let people show off their capacity for adversarial play among shifting alliances and uncertainty, so it's more 'open secret' than 'forbidden lore'.)

The upshot of all of this is, the desire for an explicit, legible system of social interactions that can be exploited for reliable outcomes- can often be a desire for power over others, in a way that I don't think the proponents fully realize. The fantasy of people just doing what you want is a powerful one for everybody, neurodivergent and neurotypical alike. And this isn't an unreasonable fantasy! it's really not fun to be surrounded by people pursuing their own interests at the expense of yours!

But it's important to realize that a lot of the hard work of aligning those values and making a system of interactions 'purely collaborative', such that everybody will be doing their best to help you succeed regardless of skill level or quirks of neurotype, is a really hard problem that nobody has yet been able to solve. And until we get there, a system in which you reliably get everything you want, and which you navigate with perfect confidence, is one that subordinates the people around you.

[thydungeongal]

That encounter joke Anon is wrong. Every 5e GM I've ever met went the route of "one fight per day oh my boss is already dead accutally he has 50 more hitpoints and now here's 2 more minions now the fight is properly exciting and dramatic" and the lack of a poker face meant we all knew.

How do you feel about that kind of rewriting, anyway?

For context, none of the GMs ever admitted to this on the LFG posts, or the pitches, etc.

I'm not opposed to it on principle. Ultimately I do think it's a bit like "oh so you're shifting the goalposts when it seems like the party is winning the encounter more easily than you think they should have," but ultimately that's just a maladaptive response to a different issue. Which is, once again, people trying to run D&D as a game it very much is not.

D&D isn't a game of epic bossfights where characters snatch victory from the jaws of defeat after an extended combat encounter. It can produce such encounters but they will usually emerge incidentally, not naturally. D&D is ultimately a game of attrition, of managing character resources through the course of an extended period, and even though D&D 5e's actual expectations of what an adventuring day is supposed to look like are whack D&D 5e does support a type of gameplay that relies on managing resources over an adventuring day much better than it does "a single epic setpiece encounter per day."

Because ultimately D&D is at its best when it's about weaponized player agency and system mastery, and in modern D&D this sometimes manifests as "the party knew they were going up against a lich so utilizing everything they know about liches they kicked that guy's ass in two turns." Now that would be really anticlimactic if the GM had set that encounter up as narrative culmination of a campaign that had been leading up to this moment for two years. But if you take it as "just one more encounter in the story of a bunch of assholes trying to grow stronger and more epic" then it's just a moment of those characters getting to flex for a moment.

Now of course adjusting the stats of a monster on the fly is sort of a problem in that it goes against the game and thus undermines player expression within the game. When the group pulls off a cool trick that immediately deals a million points of damage to the dragon's dick and you say "oh actually the dragon had two million hit points" then you're ultimately undermining player expression. I don't think this makes someone a bad GM because the motivation behind it is usually to provide a more entertaining experience for the group, but it is a sign of a GM fighting against the system and not knowing what it does, and they and their group would probably be better served by another game. And given that players won't necessarily know that happened it maintains the illusion that the game does produce that type of encounter.

My advice? As a GM, be honest: "hey, I didn't think you all would one-shot that boss. Are you okay if we add a bit more HP to that thang?" And if this is a consistent issue of the game not producing the type of experience the group wants they should ultimately look for a different game.

[queers-gambit]

Commander

prompt: ( requested ) being on opposite sides of the Rings eventually sends your husband back into your arms, and between your legs. haha, nice.

pairing: Elrond x female!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 4.6k+

note: it is NOT said (that i've heard) that Elrond wears his father's cloak - that's just author being sentimental.

warnings: not edited, some obvious angst, mostly hurt and comfort, romance, established relationship, small relationship angst, smut, is this a Commander kink? i'm not sure. small spoilers, sibling reader.

bonus

The trees of Lindon glimmered gold and winked in the sunlight as vibrant veins of restored Light flowed through them all. It was a gorgeous sight; one you were happy to bask in after nearly losing it to the dark depths of evil corrupting Middle-earth. The only reason you had this glorious sight of twinkling beauty was because you had alined yourself with Galadriel and Celebrimbor about the distribution and use of the Elven Rings of Power - though you did not wish to claim one.

You merely desired the salvation of your people on this Middle-earth the Valar gifted The Children of Ilúvatar.

In order to support the Rings, you had to oppose the only person you had ever loved unconditionally, and nothing hurt like that. Despite the pain, disruption, turmoil, the angst it put you and Elrond through, you did not waver in your opinion - but he did not relent in his stance, either.

That was usually a quality you adored in your husband; how stubborn, strong, enduring, passionate, educated, and unrelenting he was. Yet for this, you were beyond frustrated.

You remembered the look of utter betrayal in his eyes when he stormed away the day the Rings were all claimed by Círdan, Gil-Galad, and Galadriel. He couldn't look at you, on those stairs, opposing him and defending the Rings. So, he fled the scene - unable to hide how displeased, unhappy, and horrified he felt.

After that, the two of you began to bicker over simple, common, mundane, marital situations; he instigated fights, prolonged arguments, even lit purposeful fires to force you into verbal altercations. You argued endlessly, needlessly, heatedly about things that voices didn't need raised for. Tension followed you everywhere, filled every room, and after just a few nights... Elrond decided he couldn't sleep in your shared chambers any longer.

You had returned from duty to find him sending several cases of his personal belongings away, freezing when he realized you had caught him. He looked akin to a startled animal. "I did not mean for you to see this," he offered stiffly as if embarrassed, "I-I thought you were on patrol."

"I was switched to the nightshift," you explained meekly, watching servants stream from the room with their arms full of his desired effects. "W-What's going on? What're you doing?"

Elrond sighed, unable to meet your eyes for several long minutes. Then, he licked his lips, nodded, and told you, "I just figured, considering the state of affairs, we'd benefit - "

"Our marriage isn't an 'affair', Elrond!" You snapped, tears filling your eyes. "We're just in a strange state, couples are allowed to disagree, there's a lot unknown - "

"I can't stay here anymore, love, and watch how much I'm hurting you," his head shook. "You think you're silent, but I hear your weeping. I know you avoid coming to bed because I'm there first. You used to pin my robes in the morning, and now, I'm lucky if I even catch a glimpse of your skirt as you rush out the door as I wake. We're not happy anymore, Y/N..."

You froze, lungs shriveling into nothing, shock pumping into your system. "Yo-You're not happy?" You stuttered, stumbling back a couple steps as if he had brandished a sword.

Elrond just stared at you, asking, "Are you? Truly?"

"Generally, yes! I am certainly not so unhappy that I want us apart! This is just a difficult position we're in, but we will get past it, Elrond, we always do!"

"This isn't just a difficult position," he snapped, shocking you back another single step. "We're at odds, starshine, and I hate to admit it. But this is bigger than us, than our love - this is fundamental - "

"And about more than us! Yes! That's what I'm thinking of, Elrond, our people!"

"And what of Sauron? What of his influence upon the Rings!?"

"What of the good they've done? What of the connection?"

"What do you mean - "

"Galadriel!" You snapped. "The obvious connection the Ring amplifies within her! There is a grave new sense she and the other Ringer Bearers have. She can use this Ring to-to-to sense evil, perhaps even see ahead of the enemy! It might be his influence, but aren't we stronger? Stronger than him, together?"

"Those who wear the Rings - "

"You speak of your former mentor, the Elven High King, and your greatest friend. Which of them will you predict to fall?"

"After Galadriel’s already fallen prey - "

"But she is the wiser, the stronger for it! She is thrice as determined before! Why must these Rings divide us, Elrond? Why can we not simply say we leave all politics at the door when we are together?"

Sadly, slowly, he shuffled closer and reached out to caress your cheek. "I love you, my star," he reminded, "but in knowing your stance, I cannot allow us to continue being so destructive to each other. Support the Rings, my love," he lowered his forehead to yours, "but I cannot stand at your side while you do so... Not when I know of Sauron's influence..."

You pulled back, sniffling down the tears that surfaced to nod with a sarcastic smile. "I thought when we took our vows of matrimony, we'd hold true... But I can see, you do not intend to see us through this bog."

"That's where you're wrong," he snarled, stepping closer to hold both of your upper arms and jostle you slightly, "don't you see? Don't you understand? We need the space or we'll keep hurting one another, and I don't know if there's a way for us to heal after that. As of now, we stand a chance, but only if we curate distance - so we need to proceed individually as we need best."

His reasoning was logical, but you were beyond hurt by his departure. Perhaps it was for the best; especially when the High King decided to send a scouting party after Sauron, anointing Elrond as Commander, and upon the news, you panicked. Like, fully broke down in worried tears, alone. Yet you did not go to him, you did not speak out, you just accepted the High King's command and gathered in the courtyard with any other loved ones wishing the company safe travels.

Yet Elrond just looked at you sadly and lifted his hand in parting before turning to lead his comrades out of Lindon.

You shed a single tear as High King Gil-galad was felt at your flank, slowly entering your peripheral. "They have passed out of my sight," you informed him, voice trembling.

"I know of the strife between you and Commander Elrond..." the King trailed off, "But I would like to commend you for remaining a pillar in your belief. These Rings," he showed his, "are a power and force we do not yet understand in full."

"Perhaps, in time," you agreed, sniffling. "If you would excuse me, my King."

He agreed, letting you go; and all you could do was return to your chambers and throw yourself into your pillows for a good cry. After a single day or moping, you got up and got back to work; working with the other trusted advisors to devise battle strategies, evacuation plans, and whatever else you could do preemptively. You didn't know how long Elrond was gone for because after leaving your chambers, you scarcely saw him - something you suspect was on purpose. All you knew was that he was gone and you missed him.

"Sister!"

You looked up when Tinnriel, or Tinnie, rushed into the council room. "What's wrong?" You asked in alarm, straightening up to take her in arms.

"I-I saw - I saw Elrond - he's on his way here - "

"Slow down," you pleaded.

"Something's wrong!" She sneered at you, pushing your arms down. "I've been telling you for weeks! But you do not listen! To myself or your husband!"

"Oh, not this again, Tinnie, I've told you - "

"That it is paranoia, yes, I've heard you, but you and Elrond are at odds! That's not my paranoia! You two never feud, he's been gone days and now returns, looking worse for wear!"

"High King, I apologize for my sister's interruption - "

"She's not wrong," Gil-galad muttered, making you pause.

"My King?"

"You are not wrong, Tinnie," He addressed your sister, finding her eyes and holding her hostage by a single look, "for I have felt the darkness, too. There is something amiss, I will agree, but..."

"It is the Rings!" She insisted.

"Oh, not this again!" You snarled, seizing her upper arm. "Out! Now! You will still your tongue before the King!"

"High King!" You heard Elrond calling, rushing down the hall you were surging up. He spoke your name, "Where are you going?"

"To have a word - "

"This is much more important. Trust me, please! With me, now!" He breezed past you, but caught your free arm in his hold - pulling you after him and forcing you to release Tinnie. "High King," Elrond addressed as he lead you back into the room, your younger sister lingering in the doorway to listen, "the Orcs are not in Mordor."

"Elrond, our reports - "

"We've encountered them!" Elrond cut you off, making you silence yourself out of sheer curiosity; not accustomed to seeing him so disheveled and manic... So authoritative. "A legion of them are headed for Eregion." He pulled out Nenya, showing the King, "My wife and Galadriel were right! They were right! You must send the army to Eregion this moment."

Your head bowed in disappointment, wishing beyond wishful thought that you had been gifted with foresight - then you could've seen this, withheld the Elven Armies from marching to Mordor, been better prepared. Elrond noted your silence first, ready to question you, when the High King stiffly informed, "That will not be possible. I have reason to believe that Sauron is the architect of all this."

Choosing his words carefully, Elrond argued slightly, "High King, Eregion is the very jewel of Elvendom. If it were to fall, it would be a mortal blow for all in Middle-earth. You must send aid!"

"Our armies cannot defeat both Adar and Sauron. Not alone."

Something clicked in your mind, straightening up and taking hold of Elrond's arm. You bowed your head in agreement, "Of course, High King, we understand. Allow me the day to catch my husband up on recent events, we might reconvene later - "

"I shall send for you when a decision has been made," Gil-galad waved off, you all but shoving Elrond from the room; almost tripping over Tinnie.

"Go, go, go, just go," you muttered to the two in Sindarin, releasing Elrond's arm - surprise coloring your features when he snatched your hand into his. Yet you did not comment. At the end of the hall, you halted them both, being aware of the stationed guards, keeping your voice low, "Tinnie, go attend to the rest of Commander Elrond's company. I imagine they'll need food, rest, perhaps aid?"

"Camnir was shot with an arrow..." Elrond muttered, "But Galadriel healed him."

"How?" Tinnie squeaked.

"Nenya... I saw it myself..."

You sighed, "Tinnie, please?"

She nodded, "Shall I speak to them?"

"They will want to give their account, please take record for the King," you instructed, Elrond's hand tightening in yours almost unconsciously.

"What're you going to do?"

"Speak with my husband," you sighed.

"No, I mean... If you and Galadriel were right, if the Orcs are marching on Eregion... What're you going to do?"

"We have much to discuss before a decision can be made," Elrond told her, tone hardened, "now, please, Tinnie, go."

Tinnie noticed the darker, deeper baritone to his voice and instantly nodded and scurried away towards the front gates. "How far back did you leave your company?" You asked softly, watching the last of Tinnie's skirts sweep around the corner.

"Far enough. Come," he directed, turning to start down the pathway; leading you towards the quarters you once shared. Yet before you could enter, you reared back; yanking his hand, his concerned expression turning down in gentle aggravation. "What's the matter?" He asked.

"You don't live here anymore."

Elrond heaved a great sigh, turning to you, "Truly? You wish to do this now?"

"For weeks, you've picked arguments. You've been combative, irritable, spiteful. You... You chose a ring over me - "

"That's not true - "

"How would you phrase it then!?"

"I chose ethics! Morality! You chose a Ring of Power, not just a ring!" He barked at you, both cracking under the pressure the Ring had subjected your marriage to.

"And look where it lead! You come storming in, declaring Galadriel and I are right to the High King, and now... Now it sounds as if you still defend your decision!"

"I do."

You shook off his grip, "Then perhaps we might find somewhere more neutral to discuss matters?"

Elrond heaved a sigh, "What's wrong with our rooms - your rooms? What's wrong with your rooms?"

"Exactly that, they're mine. Not ours. It seems, no matter where I look, I am reminded that my husband didn't love me enough - "

"Don't you ever say that again!" Elrond snarled, leering over you; back to a bannister, bending you back slightly as you refused to back down - keeping him in front of you. He was heaving for breath, body trembling; proximity allowing you to count the pores clogged by dirt, blood, and grime. "You may hold all the anger you wish, but never accuse me of something so heinous, impossible, untrue. So unfathomable."

"Then prove me wrong!" You fired back, shoving at his abdomen to force him back a step so you could righten yourself off the bannister. "You proved to me your anger, now prove your love! Your remorse! Show me an apology, do not just say it! You looked at me with such hate, Elrond, and you left our rooms, you left me - over a matter of opinion! Do you know what that felt like? What pain that caused? You swore to me - "

"I know what our vows were!" He snapped, tears tinging his eyes red; the air hot between your mouths as you both seethed in anger. "I know what we promised, but never did I think Sauron would return, let alone offer such threat!"

"I am beginning to think you are angry about something else! Is it Galadriel - "

"It's me!"

You were startled into silence, his voice echoing down the hall as his facial expression turned angry. Elrond turned from you to pace himself in a semi-circle, and for whatever reason, you softly questioned, "Where's your cloak?"

"What?" Elrond scoffed, having created distance that you closed to lay your hand on his bicep.

"Your father's cloak, Elrond, where is it?"

"I do not know - I don't..." His head shook, looking annoyed with himself. So, you sighed and nodded, dropped your hand to his and laced your fingers together before leading him into your quarters. "Don't - "

"Just come in," you nudged his shoulder, encouraging him into the room as you shut the doors and drew all curtains to keep your conversation private. You locked the main doors.

"You rearranged?" He noted, stalking around the room; slotting himself between furniture as he silently judged it all.

"Just trying something new, I can't sleep most nights and need something to occupy my mind," you explained, shutting the balcony doors, too. With a sigh, you spun on the spot and implored, "What did you mean, Elrond, when I questioned what you were angry about and said it's you? Please, talk to me. We did not talk about Nenya, and now..." You sighed deeply.

Elrond seemingly remembered he still had the Ring, looking at it in his flat palm with what you could only describe as terror. His eyes lifted to yours, asking, "Do you have a chain?"

With a nod, you ventured to your personal jewelry box and located a glittering braided chain; approaching him to gently drop it in a coiled pile beside Nenya. His hand shook, hating the feeling of the Ring... So, you gently took his hand to steady it and asked, "Tell me what you meant."

Elrond watched you thread the Ring onto the chain. "You're right, thinking my anger is sourced elsewhere... It's not Galadriel, per se - though, I am angry, for varying reasons. But it's me - I'm angry at myself."

"Why?"

"I did not see..."

You lifted the two ends of the chain slowly to his chest, but when he flinched, you reminded, "Galadriel entrusted it to you, nobody else should keep it." He nodded in acceptance, so, you lifted the necklace again, asking, "What didn't you see, Elrond?"

"Halbrand... While in Eregion, making the Rings, he helped Lord Celebrimbor and I, it was... He was there the whole time... So very present, innocent - feigning a King of Men - "

"Halbrand is Sauron."

"He is," Elrond confirmed, "and I did not see it."

"You are angry Sauron the Deceiver deceived you!?" You gaped, hooking the chain and retracting your arms. "Elrond, do you hear yourself? You are victim, none of you knew!"

"But the Rings - they work! You were right!"

"Elrond - "

"It's why I'm angry," he admitted, "because the Rings work, I've seen it, but also because I did not see Sauron for who he was."

"None of us did," you whispered, seeing the struggle behind his eyes.

"I couldn't protect them, either."

"Who?"

"Well, now, none of us - but Lord Celebrimbor and Galadriel specifically; they were with us, with Sauron. I..." He sighed deeply, "I did not see, now we all suffer - "

"We do not suffer, we are fighting back," you cut him off now, his sad eyes finding yours. "And you, our Commander, because you alone feel responsible for our entire salvation. You will lead us, Elrond," his head shook in refusal, making you insist, "no, listen - hear my words. You will lead our people, command legions of Elves, because you have proven strong and determined enough. Since you realized the truth of Sauron, you have fought tooth and nail for the rest of us - even me, you fought me - to see the truth. We have all been blinded, deceived, and now, we all must fight, but trust that the Rings... With the darkness they bring, they must also bring light - it is not just Sauron alone in them, but you all. Which means, in the grandest scheme, all your good overpowers Sauron's bad - proven by the Light of the Valar returning. By Camnir's rescue."

"I fought..." He whispered, reaching for your face - neither of you moving away, wanting the comfort, "At a time my words were needed most. And now, it's too late."

"It's never too late, Elrond, or have you not been paying attention?" You chortled lightly, sighing as you pet over his tunic; manicured nails gently fiddling with Nenya in admiration as it glimmered in the candlelight. "I... Had an idea I want your opinion on. Born of the High King's decision to send he army to Morodor..."

He nodded, stepping closer so his hand fully caressed your cheek and slid to hold the back of your neck. "Speak it," he whispered, "tell your Commander."

You could not repress the shiver of attraction even if you tried. He leered over you, holding you tenderly, close, pressing you closer as his eyes dared you to lose your train of thought. "We seek help... From the Dwarves, from Prince Durin," you whispered, "for they hold Sauron's Rings, they will need our aid in time - we just need theirs first."

"You would have me go above our King?"

"I would have you lead us, Commander."

Elrond smirked slightly, free arm coiling around your waist to hoist you into his embrace. "Something sounds as if you... Like this new position of mine?"

"It suits you - authority, I mean."

"Oh?"

"Being decisive," you listed as Elrond moved forward, walking you backward, "assertive, argumentative... It's a good look."

"Then are you ready to listen to your Commander?"

"At once, sir."

He paused you, lips hovering over yours; demanding of your ears only, "Strip."

"My Lord - "

"Aht," he tutted, pulling back; leaving you cemented in place.

"Commander," you amended, watching him nod subtly. Slowly, your hands lifted to start unlacing your corset; his eyes dark and concentrated, watching each movement you made. Elrond stood with his shoulders squared, hands clasped in front of him, feet spread apart; ensuring you were operating to his level of completion.

"All of it," he told you when down to your small clothes; pausing your venture onto the bed behind you.

So, you stripped those off, too. He nodded in approval, watching you teasingly turn to crawl onto the bed and settle in the middle of the mattress - facing him. Elrond's eyes locked with yours, only straying when your legs slowly spread to reveal your sweetest point for his viewing pleasure. His shoulders heaved upward as he drew in breath, lifting his chin, eyes darting around to note the speckling of honey collecting between your legs.

"Touch yourself," Elrond demanded, reaching for his weapons belt and unhooking it.

"Where, Commander?"

He smirked and simply repeated, "Touch. Yourself. If you can't take direction..."

You didn't question him again, watching him slowly unlatch the belts and hooks of his uniform; deft fingers rubbing through your wetness as others came up to pinch your nipple and roll the bud. Elrond shed his boots, discarding them to the side; tunics yanked from his bare torso, leaving the glittering jewelry around his neck. A moan escaped as you dipped your fingers within your cunt as Elrond ripped his trousers open - then paused. He admired the sight of you splayed out, both hands at work, watching him undress.

In Sindarin, Elrond questioned, "Are we still at odds, my starlight?"

You whined, replying, "If you're not inside me in the next minute, Commander, we will be."

Elrond chuckled and shucked his trousers from his hips, down his thighs, then stepping out of them. "Do you forgive me, my star?"

"Nothing to forgive."

"Don't feed me that," he reprimanded, stepping up to mount the bed; his own hand beginning to fondle his reddening cock, stroking himself to straining life. "I have wronged you and your Commander intends to show he is remorseful. Tell him how."

"Move back in," you pleaded, reaching for him as he allowed himself to hover over you, "and do not leave me - not again."

His breath exhaled against your lips, settling to lay against you while a single leg bent to secure his hips on yours. "Never," Elrond agreed, "but I'll need to hear you say it."

"Is that a command?"

Elrond smirked and lined himself up to notch his cockhead at your cunt's mouth; sinking in as he answered, "Of course, it is." You gasped and slapped a hand up to hold his flushing neck, mouth wide at the familiar sting; public hair grinding together as his balls pinned between you, cock fully sheathed. "You've been given a command, my star," he grunted in your ear, "don't disappoint your Commander now."

Like all Elves, your ears had increased sensitivity; creating a legion of goose flesh to shoot across your flesh. Without breath, you affirmed in his ear, "I-I forgive you - fuck - I forgive you, my love. Don't leave me," you whimpered, "and I forgive you."

"What side do you remain?"

You whined, "Yours, yours, my husband, I remain on your side, Commander."

"And will you obey your Commander?"

"Until the end," you nodded, his lips finally findings yours. A sharp whimper ripped from your lungs as Elrond retracted his hips, thrusting into you at his own set, even pace; lips messily sliding against each other from tongues and spit. "You were gone too long," you managed to whisper.

"We won't be apart that long again," he grit, grunting as he held your thigh in a bruising-grip, "I swear it - "

"You can't - "

"I swear it," he gnashed your bottom lip between his teeth, making you gasp in pain and shock before moaning when he suckled at the mark. Softly, he released your lips, whispering, "I promise, we won't be. We go together from now on."

Nenya dangled between you, tracing around your chest from his aggressive thrusting; you agreeing with a nod, "Together."

"Now," Elrond grunted, "'M not gonna last, pet, gonna need you t'cum with me - together."

"Yes, Commander," you moaned, seeing the way his eyes fluttered; cheeks, neck, and ears blushing bright as his orgasm mounted, trying in vain to hold back. Seeing the almost involuntary reaction your words caused, your hand found Elrond's cheek and directed his eyes to yours, encouraging, "I'm so close, Commander, you make me feel so good, so full, it's been so long - too long! I'm right there, my love, my Commander, please - "

"Ah," Elrond hissed through his teeth, "yes, love, I'm there, too; right there, right there - "

"Cum in me... That's a command, Commander," you demanded in his ear, and it was all that was wrote. Elrond bucked wildly his last few thrusts, pinning you to the mattress; your own orgasm triggered by the flooding of warmth filling your too-empty womb.

"O-Oh," he stuttered, humping into you in languid thrusts before slowing to a shivering halt. You watched Elrond try to regulate his breathing, wrapping your arms around him in an instant to bring him in close; resting him on your chest while your one arm wrapped around him, the other threading into his curls. "I love you," he whispered into your flesh.

"I love you, too," you affirmed. Then, while toying with the sweat-curled ringlets of his hair, you mused softly, "You need a cut."

"You told me for years to grow it out, now you want me to cut it?"

"No, I don't want you to; I just know, you prefer a cleaner crop."

"I've... Grown fond of the look."

You smirked, "That is relieving to hear."

Elrond sighed and slowly lifted off you; only enough to help maneuver you so he didn't have to pullout of your cunt but could still hold you as the big spoon. "So... Prince Durin, is it?" He asked in your ear.

You smirked, "Why not? He is a friend, his father wields a Ring of Power... He would more incentive to help than others. And the Dwarves are formidable in battle, it could help turn the tides, by uniting the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. Elf, Dwarf, Man..."

"What alliance of Men would - "

"We do not speak of Men, we speak of Prince Durin," you reminded him; his face nuzzling into your neck. "I think you should go in person. To plead the severity of our situation, how dire the need for aid is. To convey our desperation."

"The High King - "

"Leave him to me," you insisted, holding his arms around you. "I know we just agreed to not part ways, but you need to parlay with Prince Durin and I will keep Gil-galad at bay. When Durin agrees to march to our aid in Eregion, we march our remaining forces against Adar and meet the Dwarves on the field."

"It sounds good..."

"But?"

"Is it possible?"

"We will have to work in tandem, but I would assume the King would not argue asking for aid. I'll inform him of your departure and intention after you've left."

His arms tightened, "We can speak of it more later. I just want to feel you in my arms - it's been too long."

"You will hear no such complaints from me."

After a moment, where you both spent it resettling and nuzzling into the peaceful silence, Elrond asked, "Do you... Do you think one of the company managed to find and grab my cloak?"

In amusement, you replied, "Oh, I'm sure."

"And that Tinnie would have it?"

"Knowing her, by now, surely," you mused, reaching up to pet his cheek; requesting, "now, I have gone too long without the feeling of you beside me and wish to rest."

"As you command, my love."

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

[opencommunion]

"The Global North’s political economy relies on the oppression of the Global South in general and of Palestine in particular.

As academic and writer Patrick Higgins noted in late October: 'We’re seeing a blow against the US-led world system. Since, really post-World War II, but especially post-1970 or so, Israel has been the linchpin, the basket into which most of the American chips are put, in order to sustain broader control of West Asia.'

This historical reality places a profound obligation on those in the Global North who would seek to be in solidarity to seriously consider what strategies and tactics Palestinians are calling for in the struggle for liberation, sovereignty and safety.

Such calls to action do not include that we opine on Palestinians’ methods of resistance.

They do include that we understand the history and actuality of that resistance, do all we can to stop the ongoing provision of arms to the occupation, engage in boycott, divestment and sanctions, and fight back against the criminalization of those who support Palestine’s liberation from Zionist settler colonialism.

As Virginia Tech’s Bikrum Gill exhorted: 'Show no fear, no surrender, as you oppose those who support the US-Israeli genocide of Palestinians. Bring your institutions to crisis if their functioning requires silence or complicity.'"

[pumpacti0n]

We should always be aware that it isn't some innocent mistake that authoritarian "leftists" have constantly failed to acknowledge systems of power other than a vulgar "anti-capitalism" or "anti-imperialism", like they've carelessly left out an ingredient in a cake recipe.

"Whoops, we've acknowledged one abusive hierarchy, but the other ones slipped through our fingers, silly us!" Nope. The reason this analysis of power isn't included in their ideology and praxis is because they consider these hierarchies useful to their projects.

This is why they'll mock or ignore discourse related to youth liberation, disability justice, gender self-determination or anti-patriarchal struggle, for example, or engage in apologetics for capitalist regimes in other countries -- they want to "have their cake, and eat it too".

A key reason why "the left", as some might call it, is not as powerful as it could be isn't because of some lack of discipline (or "degeneracy"), but rather a lack of intersectionality, a criticism that many of those within the black radical tradition, (black feminists and transfeminists more specifically,) have been highlighting in one way or another for at least 50 years.

Authoritarian "leftists" don't want to sacrifice the power that these hierarchies afford them, which explains why they're largely not opposed to prisons, borders, police, the enforcement of gender roles and even capitalism itself, if it's under the purview of the "socialist" ("workers") state and its bureaucrats.

And this is why I keep putting "leftist" in quotes...We're not free until we're all free, so the implication that we should settle for addressing one or two systems of domination while allowing all the others to flourish until we address them in some vague point in the far future is a distortion of what truly radical liberatory politics should entail.

It's simply a myth that we can address capitalism while leaving racism, ableism and misogyny etc. intact, as if they aren't mutually reinforced by one another, as if fascists and reactionaries will forget that they exist once capital is abolished. This is a fantasy, a delusion.

Authcoms love to pose questions like "without a state to enforce class rule, how will the proletariat defend itself?" but a better question would be: "if we fail to acknowledge the hierarchies that atomize and disempower the masses, how could we ever be a threat to capitalists in the first place? how would abandoning the most vulnerable populations serve the interests of the "working class" and "anti-imperial" struggle?

For example, (cis) women make up approximately 50% of the world's population -- so if women are still subjugated by patriarchal rule and the gendered division of labor, how will we have the numbers to fight?

Similarly, a significant portion of the world's population are currently incarcerated. If we don't abolish prisons, allowing the State to continue extracting labor from prisoners and destabilizing untold millions of social relations in the process, how can we hope to match or exceed their powers?

If we do not challenge the capitalist, productivist logic of endless resource accumulation, with its constant pollution of the environment and the displacement and erasure of indigenous peoples and non-human animals, there will be no habitable planet left for us during this "revolution", because we will have destroyed all of it in the name of profit...so what would be the point?

These aren't minor concerns that we can put off indefinitely, and it isn't some innocent mistake that they are left out of the discourse, but are instead deliberate attempts to co-opt liberation struggle for the sake of advancing counter-revolution and authoritarian projects.

It's no wonder then, that they are eager to dismiss any criticism of their projects the result of "western propaganda", as if these same critiques aren't leveraged by very people belonging to populations they constantly tokenize whenever it suits their agenda.

They'd much rather treat every marginalized community as some monolith or as primitive victims in need of saving and representation by a vanguard. This chauvinist, colonial, assimilationist, antisocial attitude is endemic in (often white,) authoritarian circles, because it forms the basis of their position towards racial and gender hierarchies, that they are a natural and inevitable factor of organization itself. They are wrong.

In this sense, they aren't meaningfully different from the capitalists they pretend to hate so much. In truth, they are just jealous and greedy for more cake.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

ANNA BONESTEEL AND EVAN GREER at Them:

Pride Month is over. As the “LOVE IS LOVE” banners come down and companies lose the rainbow gradients from their logos, we’re faced with a painful truth: LGBTQ+ people, especially the most marginalized among us, are in the crosshairs of a queerphobic backlash that is targeting our health, our histories, and especially our youth. And things are getting worse, not better. According to NPR, half of all US states now ban gender-affirming care for people under 18. Eight states now censor LGBTQ+ issues from school curricula via “Don’t Say Gay” laws, and two more states are considering similar legislation this year. The number-one book targeted for censorship is a graphic novel memoir about gender identity.

This June, Democratic lawmakers marched in Pride parades and spoke on stages, vowing to protect our community and fight back against legislative attacks on queer youth. But some of these same lawmakers are actively pushing federal legislation that would cut LGBTQ+ youth off from resources, information, and communities that can save their lives. Currently, 38 Democratic senators support the Kids Online Safety Act (KOSA), a bill that is vocally opposed by many queer and trans youth, along with a coalition of human rights and LGBTQ+ groups. As a queer- and trans-led advocacy group focused on the ways technology impacts human rights, our organization, Fight for the Future, has seen bills like KOSA before: misguided internet bills that try to solve real problems, but ultimately throw marginalized people under the bus by expanding censorship and surveillance rather than addressing corporate abuses. KOSA’s most obvious predecessor is SESTA/FOSTA, a Trump-era bill that its supporters claimed would clamp down on online sex trafficking. Instead, the bill did almost nothing to accomplish its goal, and has actively harmed LGBTQ+ people and sex workers whose harm-reduction resources were decimated by the subsequent crackdown on online speech.

Like SESTA/FOSTA, some of KOSA’s supporters have positive intent. Many lawmakers and organizations support KOSA because they are concerned about real harms caused by Big Tech, like addictive design features and manipulative algorithms. But, also like SESTA/FOSTA, KOSA doesn’t touch the core issues with Big Tech’s extractive, exploitative business model. Instead, KOSA relies on a “duty of care” model that will pressure social platforms to suppress any speech the government is willing to argue makes kids “depressed” or “anxious.”

Under KOSA, platforms could be sued for recommending a potentially depression- or anxiety-inducing video to anyone under 18. We know from past experience that in order to protect their bottom line, social media companies will overcompensate and actively suppress posts and groups about gender identity, sexuality, abortion — anything they’re worried the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) could be willing to argue “harms” kids. How do you think a potential Trump administration’s FTC would use that kind of authority?

Other features of the bill stretch its censorship potential further. Despite language claiming that the bill does not require platforms to conduct “age verification,” to meaningfully comply with the law, platforms will have to know who is under 18. This means they’ll institute invasive age verification systems or age-gating, which can completely cut off access for LGBTQ+ youth who have unsupportive parents, and/or make it unsafe for queer people to access online resources anonymously. KOSA creates powerful new ways for the government to interfere with online speech. For this reason, the bill is like catnip to extreme right-wing groups like the Heritage Foundation, the coordinators of Project 2025, who have explicitly said they want to use it to target LGBTQ+ content. KOSA’s lead Republican sponsor, Marsha Blackburn, has also said in an interview she wants to use KOSA to protect minors “from the transgender.”

The Kids Online Safety Act (KOSA) purports to protect children, but in reality, it’s a censorship bill that would impact LGBTQ+ youth. #StopKOSA #KOSA

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

It genuinely keeps me up at night that when Van Eck attempts to reveal to the Merchant Council that Wylan can’t read, they all react exactly as Wylan feared they would. (Spoilers ahead!) Of course since they don’t believe him and Wylan’s brilliant memory for Jesper’s words protects him we don’t see the full force of their response, but it is made PAINFULLY clear that they all would have responded the same way Van Eck did - “How could you say such things about your own blood?”. It’s an incredibly meaningful and arguably subtle detail that Bardugo implements to remind the reader that although Van Eck was our main antagonist in this case, there is no singular villain in this story because what the characters are fighting is an ultimately unbeatable source. The system is impossible to truly defeat because it is a hydra, we see that when Dryden’s father died he took on the role of the Council and acted the exact same way he did, and if Van Eck had raised Wylan to one day take over from him then he too would have been forcibly moulded into that shape by the poisonous environment of this governing body. The defeat of Van Eck, had Kaz not amended his will to name Wylan his inheritor, would have been only that: the downfall of a singular man, to be easily replaced by another with the same dangerously capitalistic values and crude methods of implementing them. It would not have been any change in the system that oppresses the main characters - I think it’s kind of similar to the Hunger Games (spoilers ahead) when Katniss chooses to kill Coin instead of Snow because she realises that killing Snow doesn’t actually change the system if someone else will simply step into his shoes. We also see this reflected in Kaz and his mission to destroy Rollins, since by doing so he too has taken the actions Rollins did. When Inej points out their similarities he denies it, saying “I don’t sell girls, I don’t con helpless kids out of their money”. Inej replies with the gentle, HEARTBREAKING sentence: “Look at the floor of the Crow Club, Kaz”. And this is so important because Kaz has no consideration for what happens to those people once they step outside his door. How do they fair after he scams them? How many of them have had no other money to fall back on? Did one of them sell their daughter to be able to pay off their debts to him? He’d never know, he just had the money and that’s all he thinks about. But if that girl survived long enough to want revenge, who would she blame? Say she didn’t want to blame her parents, like Kaz doesn’t want to blame Jordie, then who becomes the manifestation of all her hatred, the one thing she has decided that destroying will cure her? Kaz does. Just as Rollins has for him.

Every system of this city is a hydra, and there are so many beautifully written reminders of this without forcing it down our throats, but there is also the hope of genuine, real change. In Wylan, joining the Merchant Council as someone opposed to its views, as someone who has lived in both sides of this city and been abused by both of them, as someone who understands that real change is hard to implement. In Inej, as she journeys against the system that abused her not for revenge, but for the protection of all the children who have been hurt and killed, of all the children being hurt and killed, and of all the children who would have been hurt and killed if she didn’t stop the slavers who sought them, as someone who knows that real change is action. In Jesper, as someone raised far from the suffocating closed-minded atmosphere of the Merchant Council and who can support Wylan through it, as someone who knows that striving for real change is messy and chaotic, but that it’s where he thrives. In Matthias, who died believing that the world could truly change, who died believing in Nina, believing in himself, and believing that his death was a necessary sacrifice to real change, even though he wanted it to be peaceful. In Nina, as someone who had learned that real change cannot always be won with violence, as someone who will learn to use her new power to restructure a civilisation, as someone who will spend the rest of her life striving for change because nothing could ever be worse than her beloved having died in vain. And in Kaz, in the small ways, in the fear of what he could become that will hold him back from becoming the next head of the hydra, in his love for Inej shifting his perception of the world, and in his slow journey of healing, maybe one day killing Rollins will be enough. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll burn the world down and start it all again.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Elements of the 10 Story Genres

by Blake Snyder

The 3 elements of a BUDDY LOVE story

An incomplete hero who is missing something physical, ethical, or spiritual; (s)he needs another to be whole.

A counterpart who makes that completion come about or has qualities the hero needs.

A complication, be it a misunderstanding, personal or ethical viewpoint, epic historical event, or the prudish disapproval of society.

DUDE WITH A PROBLEM

An innocent hero who is dragged into a mess without asking for it—or even aware of how he got involved.

A sudden event that thrusts our innocent(s) into the world of hurt—and it comes without warning.

A life or death battle is at stake—and the continued existence of an individual, family, group, or society is in question.

FOOL TRIUMPHANT

A fool whose innocence is his strength and whose gentle manner makes him likely to be ignored—by all but a jealous “Insider” who knows too well.

An establishment, the people or group a fool comes up against, either within his midst, or after being sent to a new place in which he does not fit—at first.

A transmutation in which the fool becomes someone or something new, often including a “name change” that’s taken on either by accident or as a disguise.

GOLDEN FLEECE

A road spanning oceans, time—or across the street—so long as it demarcates growth. It often includes a “Road Apple” that stops the trip cold.

A team or a buddy the hero needs to be guided along the way. Usually, it’s those who represent the things the hero doesn’t have: skill, experience, or attitude.

A prize that’s sought and is something primal: going home, securing a treasure, or re-gaining a birthright.

INSTITUTIONALIZED

Every story in this category is about a group—a family, an organization, or a business that is unique.

The story is a choice, the ongoing conflict pitting a “Brando” or “Naif” vs. the system’s “Company Man.”

Finally, a sacrifice must be made and you get three endings: join, burn it down… or commit “suicide.”

MONSTER IN THE HOUSE

A monster that is supernatural in its powers—even if its strength derives from insanity—and “evil” at its core.

A house, meaning an enclosed space that can include a family unit, an entire town, or even “the world.”

A sin. Someone is guilty of bringing the monster in the house… a transgression that can include ignorance.

OUT OF THE BOTTLE

A wish asked for by the hero or another, and the clearly seen need to be delivered from the ordinary.

A spell, which we must make logical by upholding “The Rules.”

A lesson: Be careful what you wish for! It’s the running theme in all OOTB’s. Life is good as it is.

RITES OF PASSAGE

A life problem: from puberty to midlife to death—these are the universal passages we all understand.

A wrong way to attack the mysterious problem, usually a diversion from confronting the pain.

A solution that involves acceptance of a hard truth the hero has been fighting, and the knowledge it’s the hero that must change, not the world around him.

SUPERHERO

The hero of your tale must have a special power—even if it’s just a mission to be great or do good.

The hero must be opposed by a nemesis of equal or greater force, who is the “self-made” version of the hero.

There must be a curse for the hero that he either surmounts or succumbs to as the price for who he is.

WHYDUNIT

The detective does not change, we do; yet he can be any kind of gumshoe—from pro to amateur to imaginary.

The secret of the case is so strong it overwhelms the worldly lures of money, sex, power, or fame. We gots to know! And so does the Whydunit hero.

Finally, the dark turn shows that in pursuit of the secret, the detective will break the rules, even his own — often ones he has relied on for years to keep him safe. The pull of the secret is too great.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 act iii spoilers // caitvi ending commentary ⚠️

the difference between the last individual scenes of vi and caitlyn, and the one they shared actually made me sob, so here's my analysis of what it all meant

caitlyn is at home, in her family mansion in piltover. her monologue seems to be a messege or an archive for the kirammans or historians after her; she's also looking at the kiramman house files, a family heirloom, a symbol of her legacy and her station, a connection to her mother. she's perhaps searching for something needed in order to start rebuilding the city, perhaps checking if jinx could still be somewhere out there, maybe even seeing what ekko saw about the undercity's vents and water ducts. she still seems to have purpose, or to be in search of one for herself.

vi is also in caitlyn's house in piltover, but she's not with caitlyn. in a city not her own, in a house not her own, it seems she's chosen to sit in a room alone with her thoughts, staring at the fireplace. we hear her humming the tune to a song her mother used to sing, the same one jinx was humming when we first saw her this season - vi's small comfort, the faintest memory from those before her, and nothing to leave to those after her. no roots and no legacy. she's grieving everyone and everything she's lost. stripped of will and void of purpose.

caitlyn is excited to hear vi humming a song. we don't know how long it's been since the war ended, but this implies she hasn't been doing much other than sitting by herself in silence in quite some time. she's become a shell of herself, and caitlyn is worried - she's there for her but doesn't want to push her either. she asks her if she's "still in the fight", and this is a loaded question that i can see two main meanings in - one notably sadder.

1) are you still in there?

what part of you is left, and is it strong enough to keep fighting this state you're in? do you have it in you to keep going? do you have the will to live in spite of it all? is there any fight left in you? are you still with me, or are you just in the room?

and i feel like caitlyn knows the answer but wants to hear it from vi, check in on her and encourage her to open up if she's feeling ready to. because she heard her humming to herself.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't mean it in a cute, flirty or romantic way. she means it in a self-deprecating "i know i'm not being easy right now" kind of way.

i'm not fun to be around, to have to take care of and wait around for. i'm making things harder for you and i'm holding you back by not cooperating and just getting better. i can't help it.

and she adds onto this, "nothing's ever gonna clean me out"

you're stuck with me. i'm a nuisance to you but i can't leave you because you're all i have left. i think i'm lost and broken beyond repair. i'm crooked. i think i'll never be okay again.

2) have you given up on zaun?

are you still in on fighting the system? have you given up on trying to make others see your people for who you are? do you still have hope in the dream for unity and freedom for zaun?

it sounds like caitlyn does, and she's still up for it, just like she was in the latter half of the first season, before jinx kidnapped her, tried to get vi to kill her, and blew up the counsil building just as its members were about to vote for zaun's sovereignty, killing caitlyn's mother. but caitlyn can't do it on her own - it's vi's home, vi's people, vi's identity - and she needs to know if vi still believes they can change something.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't literally mean caitlyn, or herself. she means the opposing poles they represent - piltover and zaun, oppressor and oppressed, a pristine policewoman and a crooked criminal. until piltover's view of the undercity and its people changes, zaun will always be a torn in its side, fighting it, defying it, trying to free itself from its clutches. small, perhaps insignificant, an inconvenience, but a part of it that it can't get rid of or erase. it'll always be there, it'll always fight back.

and when she says nothing's ever gonna clean her out, she means she'll never be bent out of shape and lose that part of herself - the ugly, dirty, raggedy part that grew up on the streets of zaun and was raised among all the tragedy, misery and poverty of the undercity. a product of the system. she'll never let that be "washed out" of her, she won't forget her origin or her goals. this is who she is, her identity - not just in the eyes of piltover, but in her own heart - a zaunite.

EDIT: i also saw this interpretation on tiktok if you're interested. to summarize: there's a spanish saying "like nails and dirt" which is used to refer to two people who are inseparable, so this is a testimony of vi's love for caitlyn having given her reason to keep going and stay by her.

[ladamedusoif]

able

(Joel Miller x disabled F!Reader)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Disabled F!Reader

Summary: "I just don't think she'll be able for patrol". But then it's just you, Joel, and your trusty walking stick in the middle of nowhere...

Content/warnings: Reader is disabled (she has rheumatoid disease/arthritis in addition to panic attacks, she uses a walking stick as necessary); Reader had a sister; Reader is an art teacher; strong violence; blood; description of panic attack; references to impact of chronic illness and disability; references to medication; references to disease and death; non-canon compliant; Jackson!Joel; strong language; ableist language and abusive language

Rating: Mature; 18+ MDNI

Word Count: ~3.7k

A/N: After making a plea earlier in the week for people to actually write disabled Reader fic, as opposed to forcing writers to feel they have to tag literally everything in an able-bodied Reader story, I knew I had to put my money where my mouth was as a disabled, neurodivergent writer with various mental health things going on here and there. And this one-shot is the result.

This one is a little personal. I was diagnosed with rheumatoid disease about ten years ago, and Reader’s experiences are informed by my own (though, thankfully, I haven’t had to contend with an apocalypse that meant I couldn’t access the medication that has kept me going). She’s also inspired by @agentjackdaniels, who acted as consultant extraordinaire on walking sticks and panic attacks, and suggested the Joel picture for the moodboard. Thank you, Luce, for this, for fighting the good fight for representation in fic - and for beta-ing the story. 

(A note on terminology: rheumatoid disease/arthritis are sometimes used interchangeably. ‘Arthritis’ often sounds like it’s ‘just’ osteoarthritis to people who don’t know the difference. Rheumatoid, unlike osteoarthritis (which is shitty in its own ways), is a systemic, lifelong, chronic illness and an auto-immune disorder that affects the entire body, not just bones and/or joints. So personally I use ‘rheumatoid disease’ as it conveys more of the impact of the condition. It's also often seen as an 'old person' disease but this simply isn't true - not that this stops mobility aids being modelled by people in their 80s all the time...)

Please follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to stay up to date with my work.

Dividers by @saradika - moodboard by me

You weren’t supposed to make it.

Twenty-odd years in the apocalypse with your fucked-up joints and no steady supply of the meds that kept you going, pushing through the cycles of fatigue, and fighting off your own goddamned immune system as much as you were fighting clickers and raiders. 

You really weren’t supposed to make it. But you had Annie.

You were sharing an apartment when the outbreak happened, a quirk of shitty personal circumstances - she’d just broken up with her long-term boyfriend - that probably helped save your life. Annie was the all-action sister - the kind of person who thinks there’s nothing weird about spending your weekends doing triathlons and “Tough Mudder” challenges, who had a perfect bill of health your entire lives, who bounced out of bed in the mornings while you cracked and creaked and stiffly manoeuvered yourself into being. 

The good days generally outweighed the bad in the years between your diagnosis with rheumatoid disease and the initial outbreak - or maybe you had just gotten used to the aches and pains and the occasional flare-ups of fatigue. You invested in a walking stick to help on those days when mobility was particularly bad: solid, heavy, and carved in a pale yellow wood. It felt like a comfort in your hand, more a sign of strength, to you, than of weakness. 

Annie helped you through the panic attack that consumed you on outbreak day, working with you to regulate your breathing and relax your tense muscles until you could finally say what was on your mind.

“My meds. What am I going to do without my meds?”

Nothing a quick smash and grab at the local pharmacy couldn’t fix. It was the first of many, stockpiling the little yellow tablets you relied on and taking as many packs of over-the-counter painkillers as you could carry. Useful currency in the apocalypse, as it turned out.

All-Action Annie was never going to cope with life in a QZ. She got the two of you out after months of planning, nights of whispered talk about a town out west that was normal - or something close to it, anyway. She hadn’t entertained your protestations about you slowing her down, holding her back.

“You think I’m leaving behind a girl who’s so handy with a weapon?” she’d teased, pointing to your walking stick. “Be real. We’re busting out together.”

The infection took hold in her about three days from Jackson. Fuckin’ barbed wire, tearing a jagged line through Annie’s hand and leaving behind an old-fashioned kind of threat to life, the kind penicillin had mostly dealt with. But that was then. This was now. 

She died in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, you holding her hand until the end, talking to her about your childhoods and trying to keep smiling until she closed her beautiful eyes. 

It took all your strength to dig her grave. And then, somehow, you found more.

You weren’t supposed to make it. But you did. 

Jackson stands before you. 

He sees you for the first time in the community dining hall, talking animatedly to Maria as you hungrily devour the food set in front of you. Eyes wide, face grubby, clothes ragged. Half-wild, he thinks, like most of the new arrivals. Like him and Ellie, once upon a time. He returns to his bowl of soup and his own thoughts - at least, until he’s interrupted by Maria.

“Joel? Want to introduce a new member of the community, just arrived.”

He doesn’t quite know why he’s surprised when he realises you’re leaning on a sturdy hand-carved walking stick in a solid, light yellow wood. Maybe it’s because he knows how physically hard it is to get here. Maybe he just assumed folks who needed a stick wouldn’t have been able to manage the journey. 

For a second he can hear Sarah’s voice in his head, chiding him for focusing on what a disabled person can’t do instead of what they can. 

“Joel?”

He snaps out of his reverie and looks from Maria to you. “Uh, hi. Sorry, just…sorry. Forgot my manners.”

“I was just saying how glad we are to have someone who can offer some art education in the town, isn’t that right, Joel?”

Your eyes are warm and mischievous as you meet his gaze, silently conveying your amusement at Maria’s rather brusque manner. It’s all Joel can do not to laugh.

“Sure is. You’re an artist, then?”

You shake your head. “Not a real one. I was an art teacher, before. Long time since I created anything, though, so I hope I remember how.”

He smiles softly, his gruff exterior receding a little. “Bet it’s just like riding a bike,” he says, before his face falls as he looks at your walking stick. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean… Shit. Hope I didn’t offend.”

“As it happens, I can ride a bike, Joel. The apocalypse just doesn’t give me much cause to.”

You leave him with a smile and a wink as Maria ushers you to meet other townsfolk. He watches you as you walk away, the tap-tap-tapping of your stick beating out a new rhythm in the heart of Jackson.

You think of Annie every morning when you wake up in the little house you’d been assigned. Sometimes, as you potter around the kitchen, still revelling in the novelty of making yourself morning coffee for the first time in two decades, you even talk to her. You tell her about the town, the townsfolk, your work in the community vegetable garden, your art classes. 

“Honestly, An, you wouldn’t believe how popular they are,” you tell the Annie who, in an alternate universe, is sitting at the kitchen table with her own mug of coffee. “I’m setting up extra sessions to cater for demand.”

There’s something uplifting in how hungry the people of Jackson are to make art, no matter their experience or existing skill level. They’ll draw stuff from memory, they’ll dutifully work on a still life, they’ll even traipse outside with you, wooden sketching boards in hand, and make rapid-fire sketches of the goings-on on Main Street. 

Joel doesn’t join a class - but the teenage girl Maria refers to as “Joel’s kid” does, all potty-mouthed and enthusiastic and pretty damned talented, to boot. Ellie tells you how she’s pinned up the drawings she’s proudest of in their home, “like our own fuckin’ art gallery or some shit.” 

You pull up a tall stool and sit beside her, resting your stick over your thighs. “Joel’s got his guitar and those dumbass model figures he paints,” she continues, leaning around her easel and squinting at the woman who’d volunteered to act as a life model for this week’s classes. “But this shit? This is real art.” She adds a little highlight to the woman’s sweater and leans back to assess the work.

“You probably got exempt from patrols, I’m guessing. On account of the stick, an’ all.”

“Maria asked, and I signed up happily. I got all the way here, didn’t I? I’m sure I can manage patrols. And it’s the least I can do - they’ve even found me some of the medications I need.”

Ellie nods, somewhat convinced, and returns to sketching out the contours around the model’s jaw.

The day of your first patrol arrives. You bundle up and set out early for the stables, allowing extra time to get there on account of the flare-up you’d been experiencing the day before. 

You arrive early - just in time, in fact, to overhear a heated conversation between Joel and Maria.

“She’s doing enough, ain’t she? I just don’t think she’ll be able for patrol.”

“You’ve seen her out and about, Joel. She’s mobile. She’s competent. She’s good with the horses. She got all the way here, the last stretch on her own. What more proof do you need?”

“You’re seriously gonna send a woman with a walking stick out on patrol?”

“I seriously am. Sent you and your bad back out, didn’t we?”

“That ain’t the same and you know it.”

“Just saddle the horses, Joel. And, in case you’re wondering - yes, I paired you together deliberately, just until she gets settled.” You hear her footsteps recede as she leaves him.

You had misjudged how much your already-limited grip would be further impeded by the gloves you’re wearing. The stick clatters to the ground.

“Who’s there?”

You emerge from the shadows. “Me. Sorry.”

Joel rolls his eyes and gruffly points out the tack and supplies.

The first patrol passes in silence. You wonder what happened to the softer man you’d caught a glimpse of the first day you arrived.

On the second patrol, you ask him questions about himself. On the third patrol, he asks (fewer) questions about you. By the fourth, you’re having something approximating normal conversation. 

“Sarah loved to make all kinds of stuff,” he ventures, leading the way on his chestnut horse. “Those beaded bracelets, that girly Lego in the pink and purple, all of that. My girl had enough Magic Markers to supply a whole elementary school. Maybe two.”

You can hear him smile, even without seeing his face. His shoulders relax a little as he recalls the memory.

“So she was a creative kid?”

“Creative, sporty… she could do anything. Made the school soccer team, she was so proud. Just a…” He pauses. “A great kid.”

There’s a few beats of silence, punctuated only by the sound of the horses snickering and the steady rhythm of their hooves on the ground. 

“What about your sister, was she arty like you?”

You’d told him about Annie on the last patrol. This was the first time he’d asked about her explicitly.

“She was the sporty one. I think that’s why I survived so long, truth be told. She was so strong and fast and tough as fuck.”

He chuckles, the burr of his voice resonating in the cold air. “Sounds like a good balance, though.”

“It is - it was. Was.” Your voice grows quieter as you repeat the word to yourself, chest starting to tighten. The horse slows, responding to the tension of your body, as Joel continues to trot on, not realising you’ve come to a halt behind him. 

And then the tell-tale snapping of a twig, the sound of footsteps, and the realisation there’s someone else there, emerging out of the woods. Two someones. 

Raiders. 

The panic attack that has been building inside you gives way. An innate fight or flight response kicks in as you roar his name. 

Joel turns and charges back towards you, just in time to see you take out one raider with a crack shot from your pistol. He slows the horse and readies his rifle, staring at the other man who is now trying to haul you off your mount.

“Get the fuck off me, motherfucker!” You flail against him, desperately shifting your weight to the other side of the saddle to try to shake him off. 

Joel takes aim. 

You think you’ve kicked the raider off. And that’s when you hit the ground.

He can’t take the shot now, not with her half-hidden from his view and audibly fighting off the man who’s dragged her to the ground. Joel is still a little distance away, slightly too far to see exactly what’s happening. 

Why didn’t he hear her slowing? Why didn’t he realise she was further behind than she ought to be? Why did she slow in the fuckin’ first place?

Joel quickly dismounts, rifle in hand, moving closer so he can get a clearer shot at the guy who’s now standing over her. The horse’s elegant neck obscures the raider’s hands from Joel’s vision - he has no idea if he’s pointing a gun at her or not. 

He thinks he has a clear sight on the guy’s head, provided he stays in the same position. He readies the rifle. 

Suddenly, the raider disappears, letting out a primal roar before he hits the ground. 

“You fucking cunt!”

Joel can see she’s standing now, the man prone before her. As he rounds the horse he sees her lift her cane, hands securely gripping the pointed end of the stick. 

She brings the solid, weighty handle down on the raider’s leg with a sickening crunch. Even Joel recoils a little at the sight and the sound.

“F-f-fucking…c-c-cunt!”

Thwack. The other leg. 

Fuck. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

”Keep calling me that, and I’ll keep the blows coming.”

Holy fuck. Who is she?

”C-c-c-cripple.”

”Excuse me?”

The raider props himself up on his arms. “I said, cripple. Fucking crippled cunt.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Joel cocks his rifle. 

The stranger sneers at Joel. “Awww, he’s actin’ the big man now. Weren’t too quick gettin’ back down here to save your cripple woman, were ya?”

Before Joel can react, she swings her stick over her head and brings it down on the man’s skull with a furious scream that seems to come from the very depths of her being. 

She screams and screams as she hits him, over and over, eyes wild in her blood-spattered face. Joel recognises this: in himself; hell, in Ellie. It’s the moment when the floodgates open and all those years of pain blend together and zone in on this convenient target, an avatar for everyone and everything who had forced loss and trauma upon you. 

He roars at her to stop, but knows she can’t hear him. It’s just her and the raider, now: her rage and fear and grief finding their expression through a walking stick turned cudgel.

A single shot ends it. She turns sharply, as if snapped out of a trance, and sees the smoke leaving Joel’s pistol. 

“Hey. Hey. You alright?” His broad hands grip your biceps as he looks into your eyes.

Yes, you tell him, yes. You’re fine. But Joel keeps asking. 

“Talk to me. Are you okay? I’m worried about you. Please, just talk to me.”

You are moving your mouth, but no sound is coming out. The familiar vice is tightening around your chest. You look down at your blood-stained hands and you struggle to breathe. 

“‘M dying, Joel. Can’t breathe. All the blood. So much. Why can’t I breathe?”

Oh, he realises with a pang. She gets these things too. And I know how to help.

“You’re okay, you hear?” He’s rubbing your arms gently, keeping his gaze on you. “You’re alright. Breathe along with me, okay?”

It’s difficult to find the rhythm, at first. Joel’s hands find yours and squeeze them in time with his breath.

”In through your nose, that’s it. Slow and steady. Now out through your mouth.”

He can see your muscles starting to visibly relax. A wave of relief courses over him.

”Yeah, that’s it - you got this. You got this, good girl, you’re just fine. Gonna be alright.”

When he’s confident your breathing has settled and the panic attack receded somewhat, he gently guides you away from the body of the dead raider, one hand holding your horse’s bridle and the other holding yours. 

“Why don’t you have a seat for a minute, huh?” Joel gestures to a long, low tree trunk lying near the forest’s edge and opens his saddlebags, rummaging until he finds a cloth, a battered hip flask and a bag of dried apple slices.

”Here.” He wipes the blood as best he can from your hands and proffers the flask, settling his substantial frame beside you on the log. “Have a sip or two, just to relax you a little bit more. Got a snack, here, too.”

You flinch at the taste of the liquor, but take a second sip regardless. The apple slices barely taste of anything in the afterburn of the moonshine. Joel nibbles on some jerky and stares into the middle distance. 

You take a break from patrol, agreed with Maria, and a few days off your art classes. It was tempting to keep going, to return to the light and airy studio and to your students. But you feared a relapse.

And your body needed to recover physically, too. You ached from head to toe, fingers and toes puffy and swollen and movement seriously restricted. You ration out the supply of medication you’ve secured since getting here, and use hot water bottles and plenty of rest to try to ride out the flare in your arthritis.

Three days after the incident, there’s a knock on the door. You hobble to answer it, leaning on your trusty stick for support.

”Came by to see how you were doing. Got you some things if you needed ‘em.”

Joel is standing on your front porch, holding a jute grocery bag. He pauses, as if waiting for you to give him permission to say more.

”That’s so very kind of you, Joel. Come in, won’t you? I was able to set a fire so it’s nice and cosy.”

He watches as you lead the way into the living room, noting how much slower you were today. Guilt laps at his conscience. He said she shouldn’t go on patrol. He knew.

”You want me to bring these into the kitchen for you?”

“That would be a great help. Thank you.” He’s glad to see you smile, after the trauma of the patrol. “If you want a drink, I’ve got some tea and coffee in the cupboard just to the left of the sink.”

He pops his head back into the living room. “What would you like?” 

“A tea would be perfect. Mugs are in the cupboard to the right.”

You wrap yourself back up in your blankets on the couch, making room for Joel when he returns with the drinks and a couple of cookies, sent over by Ellie as part of his care package for you. The mug feels like a comfort in your aching hands, its heat assuaging the inflammation ravaging your joints.

He sips his coffee and you sit in silence for a little bit, watching the flames dance over the firewood. 

“Have you, uh - you been okay, doing okay, since…”

Joel stares into his coffee cup and then looks at you, a little awkward. You smile, hoping to reassure him.

”I’ve been okay. Just the physical pain and exhaustion, mostly. And - well, you saw it. The panic. It can leave you drained.”

He nods and takes another swig of his drink. “I know. I - I’ve had times like that, too. Real fuckin’ scary, when you’ve never gone through it before.”

You study his face for a moment or two, noting the little scar on his temple, the lines on his face, the stern expression completely undermined by the warmth of his deep brown eyes. For an instant, he seems so vulnerable, this strong, tough man sitting on your little couch. 

“I haven’t had an attack like that in a while. But then, I hadn’t done anything like that in a while.”

This time Joel turns to look at you properly. “Not your first rodeo, huh?”

You giggle at the turn of phrase. “Not quite. Let’s just say my stick did a lot of work over the last twenty years. He wasn’t the first to feel the brunt of it.”

Joel nods, and you feel strangely relieved that he doesn’t seem surprised. “Doesn’t get easier, though, does it?”

“It does not. Which is why it’s better to avoid having to do it.”

”I agree. Gotta say, though, I - I was worried you wouldn’t be able for patrol, y’know?”

You arch an eyebrow at him. “I know. I overheard you, remember?”

He blushes. “Aw, shit. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t want anything happening to you, what with your - condition, and all.”

You sigh softly, not really noticing the affection in his voice. “Most of the time, I’m fine. Y’know? I’m slower, but I do okay. I get tired more easily, but I manage. I didn’t come here to be a drain on the community.”

”You aren’t.”

”I know, but I want to keep it that way. I want to pull my weight. I’m able, Joel.”

He huffs in agreement. “Not like I’m a perfect specimen these days, either. Knees, fuckin’ back, deaf in one ear…” 

You chuckle. “And you thought I wouldn’t manage patrol? Anyway, you’re not doing so bad, are you?”

He gives you a little smile, but that constant sadness still haunts his eyes. He stares at his coffee for a moment.

“You knew what you were doing, though.”

”I did. But I didn’t feel like I could stop.” You sip your tea, swallowing hard. “And I’m scared that makes me some kinda monster. You know?”

Oh, he knows. He knows it too well.

”You aren’t a monster.” Joel resists the urge to put an arm around you. “You just… something snapped, I guess. All that - well, all that hell you’ve gone through. It… it changes you. But it doesn’t make you a monster.”

He realises you’re crying before you do, spotting the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. He finds a clean handkerchief in his jeans and offers it to you. 

Fuck it. 

“Can I - can I put an arm round you? Just for some support?”

Your eyes light up, tears or no tears, and you nod enthusiastically. Joel is warm and comforting, his broad chest and strong arms a kind of anchor in the emotional storm. You nuzzle against him, and he gives you a little squeeze on the arm.

”You’re a really brave woman, you know that?”

His voice is quieter, more intentional. You look at him quizzically from under your lashes, unused to praise of this kind. For an instant you think about asking him what he means. But the safety you’ve found in the broad arm draped around you is all you need right now. 

You nuzzle a little against his chest, and watch the fire dancing for the rest of the night. 

[lilac-gold]

i know that this is just a part of how omori's fight system operates, but i find it very interesting that we are able to make memes like the one pictured below considering all we know about hero's character throughout omori, both in the real world and in headspace

this meme is made by using hero's "smile" skill as well as a rain cloud, sad poem or anything else that inflicts a sad emotion on him. hero's skills are primarily always either food-based healing (e.g. "cook", "fast food", "homemade jam", "snack time") or some form of charisma (e.g. "captivate", "mesmerise", "enchant", "dazzle"). it's hero's job to be the support of their team, and to use his pleasant demeanor and appearance as a distraction.

no matter which emotion hero has, he can still use every one of those skills. it is of no relevance how he feels as long as he can uphold his designated role as a charmer and a healer.

now, consider real world hero's way of dealing with things, which is that he simply doesn't. when he returns to faraway, he's there for everyone else, appearing on the surface to be completely fine and content, and simply not acknowledging his own trauma. he puts on a constant facade of normalcy and perfection. because to hero, it doesn't matter which emotion he has, he can still use every one of his skills. it is of no relevance how he feels as long as he can uphold his designated role as a charmer and a healer.

hero would bend over backwards to please others. he canonically has depression, but would much rather be someone else's shoulder to cry on than admit he's not okay. everyone puts him on a pedestal, viewing him as a sort of ideal to look up to. sunny does it. kel does it. his parents do it. even hero himself does.

i think that's part of the reason why he's so often overlooked by the fandom: hero's unrealistically perfect, but that's exactly the point. he forces those expectations on himself, forces himself to earn trophies and medals even while he struggles to even get out of bed. he smiles despite wanting to do the opposite, because he's not supposed to be depressed. he's hero.

his charm-based skills in headspace alternate between a) reducing foes' attack with a bonus happy effect and b) acting first with all foes targeting him for one turn. hero either dissolves the situation a little, acting like the mediator he always has been, or takes the blunt of the damage for his friends.

he's constantly in the spotlight, in every world.

headspace hero has done a ridiculous amount to help people, from stopping a wildfire to giving up all of his organs, has made such a profound impact on so many lives through his good deeds, and that's recognised. people in headspace adore him.

the conveyor belts at the junkyard are endeared to him. sweetheart falls in love with him. mr jawsum plans to essentially keep him trapped working at the last resort forever. medusa thinks he's "too pretty to sell". hero's worth something to so many people, even when he doesn't want to be.

and that applies to the real world too. he's the only older sibling left for his friends after mari's death. he has to be strong for them, to be that ideal, because they have no-one else to fill that role. he brings kel and aubrey together, rescues sunny and basil, says that they should have a sleepover like "old times". he's trying so hard for everyone else, he can't afford to let himself crumble.

hero's a performer. and we see canonically that he has at least some stage fright from sweetheart's quest for hearts.

sweetheart's an interesting case. i find it interesting that the image above would be found mostly in the fight against her. sweetheart is one of the bosses with a uniquely heightened emotional state, hers being that of happiness in "manic". due to the way the emotion system in battle works (explained to us, funnily enough, by hero himself), it makes sense to oppose sweetheart's mania with sadness, misery, and depression.

so that's what hero does! he has the depressed effect, he'd otherwise look incredibly morose, but as soon as time calls for it, he's got a smile back on his face. we see how uncomfortable he is about her advances, but he gives her a smile that sets into motion a whole separate stream of dialogue where sweetheart proclaims her that she would like to "make [his smile] mine".

hero's the group golden boy. the charmer, the healer, the protector, the older brother, the pillar for them to lean on when things get tough. he knows that he is, and upholds that image to the best of his ability.

that is, until mari dies.

then, he falls into a deep, serious state of depression in the real world, because he's failed. he and mari have strived for perfection their whole lives, only for her to apparently deem it all pointless and leave them behind. hero feels like he wasn't enough, like he never will be, no matter how much he's tried. the faked grins disappear alongside those which were genuine, for how is he supposed to smile when he's given up on the facade?

he stops talking to people. stops going outside. stops helping. he can't do anything but reflect on his perceived failures, and without his pillar of support, the group crumbles to pieces.

hero stays like that for a whole year, until he argues with kel and remembers the reason why he needs to stay alive. this is hurting his brother as much as it is hero, and kel's depending on him to get better. so he does, in a way.

he earns medals and trophies again, helps out again, lives up to expectations then exceeds them even more. he can't bring himself to do the things he enjoys anymore, or talk to the three kids he viewed as little siblings and he failed, but he's trying. then, he leaves, off to medical school like his parents wanted. it's a fresh start. it's a chance for him to start to move on.

he's been healing, a little, by the time he comes back to faraway. he can talk about what mari would have wanted without breaking down entirely. he can make kel and sunny breakfast. he can bring the group together like old times, and reminisce on all he used to have.

but he's still not better, and it shows. it shows in the tears he spills when alone beside mari's old piano. it shows in his refusal to visit her grave. it shows in all the little ways he can try to hide, can cover up with a smile too bright to be real. depression doesn't go away that easily, no matter how much hero tries to pretend he's fine.

all in all, i think this meme essentially sums up hero's character and arc in a single, otherwise funny image. am i overcomplicating things? oh, definitely yes. was this a blast to analyse nonetheless? absolutely! there are far too few takes on hero out there, and i hope this gave a little bit of insight as to why i adore him so much.

[gayszlen]

For the yet-to-be-informed, let me preach to you the gospel of Das gayszlen

What is Das Gayszlen?

Das gayszlen, generally translated as the "whip" is a technique in historical longsword fighting from 15th century German tradition. The basic mechanics of the gayszlen are as such: a single handed strike with the nondominant or lower hand, where the sword is released from a traditional grip to allow the blade to sweep towards the leg of your opponent. Some also define other one handed strikes, slices, or thrusts as a gayszlen, but (in my experience) the more common interpretation is the narrower definition I provided. There is some difficulty however in knowing definitively how it was used historically, beyond the general difficulty in knowing anything for certain in HEMA that comes with the territory of reviving a dead art. Much proverbial ink has been spilled online about how, when, and if it is appropriate to use, and many consider it to be a cheap trick, not to be used in serious competition or incorporated into a revival of historical fencing systems. I have Thoughts™ about it and my new URL change inspired me to detail those thoughts, continued below.

Where does it come from?

Ok. so. maybe "15th century german tradition" is a bit generous. There is a grand total of ONE source for the gayszlen, which is in a fechtbuch (fencing book) by fencing master and author Hans Talhoffer, one of the most influential and prolific of his time. His numerous manuals cover a wide range of weapons and techniques including grappling, dagger, polearms, mounted and armoured combat, as well as some more silly things like duelling/long shields and "man vs woman" duels (last two pictured below).

Despite all that and multiple depictions of many of the techniques for these silly "niche" styles of combat (at least in the context of modern HEMA practice, they likely were somewhat prevalent at the time and used to resolve legal disputes) there is only one illustration of the gayszlen, in one of Talhoffer's books. It depicts an exchange between a fencer in a "free point" (afaik the only time that term is used as well, though it is a position that is quite common in german longsword fencing, being a sort of hanging guard or the midpoint of a strike like a zwerchhau) and another performing the gayszlen against the aforementioned fencer, shown below (figure on the right is performing the gayszlen).

You may notice the text on the image, next to each figure! These say Ain fryes ortt and Das gayszlen, again translated as "a free point" and "the gayszlen". You may ask "but what does the actual caption or description say about it?!" I'm so sorry to disappoint you, and I share in your misery: this is all there is. Truly sad, I know. This lack of source material is (in my opinion) why there is so much difficulty defining it and so much debate over its historical usage and value in modern use.

So how do people interpret it?

As stated earlier, the (general) consensus is that it is a one handed strike (a hit, hew, or cut, as opposed to a thrust or draw/push slice) made with the offhand to the lower half of the opponent's body. One of the main disagreements on how to interpret this is whether the sword is "whipping" or cutting to the left from the right, or from the right to the left. Based on the foot position, it might look like the fencer performing the gayszlen (hereafter referred to as G) is bringing the sword from their left side to swing into the opponent's (hereafter referred to as F) left calf. However, this hand position and movement of the sword leaves G entirely open to attack anywhere on their torso or the right side of their body generally. An example of me (right) executing this interpretation is below: you can see that I do actually get the hit, but my opponent nearly hits me with the first strike to the right side of my head, where I am most vulnerable, and follows it up with another strike to my head. If this scenario played out with sharp swords and no protective gear I would lose this fight.

Another interpretation of the gayszlen is this: G holds the sword in any guard on the right side of their body (higher guards may be better for generating more force or deciding to do literally anything other than the gayszlen) and releases the sword from their right hand, holding the pommel in the left and sweeping the sword towards F's right calf. in the picture we have, it may be that the "free point" is meant to be a response to the gayszlen, and therefore F is retracting their foot to avoid the gayszlen, while striking G to their unprotected body. An example of me (left) attempting to execute this interpretation is below: even though my opponent fails to parry or suppress my attack, it wasn't necessary. I didn't have the reach to hit her leg, though her dodge may have saved her even if I had been a bit closer to begin or had extended farther.

Something that I believe supports this second interpretation is the general attitude of historical German longsword manuals to favor attacks and guards from above, to high openings, or generally closer to the upper half of the body than lower attacks and guards. A reason for this is detailed in many European sword systems, namely the destreza rapier tradition, thibault by extension, and meyer.

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/tPHbG28niyc

The above image and video are pretty simple explanations, the core idea being that a sword and arm extended at the height of the shoulder (or nearer the shoulder) will have more forward reach than a sword and arm extended higher or lower than the shoulder. Because of this, F theoretically has somewhat of a reach advantage over G, as their sword and arm are closer to their shoulder. though the utility (as I'll talk about more later) of the gayszlen is that it is done in a grip that extends G's reach beyond a normal grip like F has.

There are also interpretations that point to it being a thrust (like I attempt below) which is supported by similar techniques showing up in other European sword systems, which I could spend a whole equally long post talking about, but this is plenty long as is, maybe a topic for another time. The two lame reasons I have for not liking this interpretation is that a thrust doesn't seem very "whiplike", and also a thrust to the legs with one hand is harder to pull off than a cut to the legs or a one handed thrust to the torso.

How can I incorporate the gayszlen into my modern HEMA practice?

To preface this, throughout all of this I'm mixing terms and concepts from Fiore and Liectenauer and Talhoffer and Meyer and probably some other stuff. I primarily study and practice Liechtenauer blossfechten via Ringeck, Danzig, and Lew, as well as most of Fiore's system. This is just my opinion on what purpose the gayszlen can serve in the frog DNA filled world of HEMA longsword, this is not pure to any martial art system, just an application for the sport.

That being said: I believe the gayszlen's place in modern longsword fencing is similar to that of guards like the boar's tooth, long tail, or the key, all of which can use distance deceptively. they place the sword further back than it would be in an iron gate or a plow (guards which are somewhat close to those I mentioned) and allow the fencer using them to seem less threatening than they would with more aggressive guards. Likewise, I often find myself throwing gayszlens from positions where I'm somewhat retracted or seemingly out of distance, or preparing for an attack to another opening. This can often allow an attack at an unexpected timing or from an unexpected angle. I find it works well when your opponent is static in a guard and you to a distance juuust outside of where you could hit them with a normal grip, and the switch to a one handed pommel grip gives you the couple inches you need to get the hit, and hopefully enough speed to avoid getting beaten away by their sword. One of the big dangers with the gayszlen is the opportunity it presents for getting hit. When you employ this technique, you give up basically all protection your sword has to offer, you can't block any incoming attacks, and you don't have a good enough grip to bat your opponent's sword out of the way. This means that if you don't plan well, you leave yourself totally open to a double or a hit to you if they avoid your gayszlen. See below! The fencer attempting the gayszlen (right) goes in with his head down and totally unprotected, allowing the opposing fencer to get a really beautiful hit to his head as she dodges his gayszlen. This is what you should do if you encounter someone who is eager to use the gayszlen and you wish to discourage them.

A safer position (both to avoid getting hit and to avoid injury, as I'll mention in the next section) is a more upright stance and a deep lunge, though keeping your shoulder up, as I mentioned earlier, reduces your range to that lower point.

Why don't some people allow it in tournaments?

Many tournaments, in my area and others, don't allow gayszlens. some ways this manifests are bans on all one-handed cuts, all one handed strikes altogether, including thrusts, hits to the leg below the knee, etc. Some people just don't like the gayszlen, think it's too hard to judge, think it doesn't have enough historical basis, or think it is dangerous to the person doing it or the person having it done to them. A lot of those reasons are laid out in this article, which, while I disagree with most of the points, makes those points pretty well. It's also the first result when you search on google for gayszlen, which makes me sad :( Another argument regarding the safety that isn't mentioned in that article is that to get additional reach and evade strikes from above, some people get really low when executing a gayszlen, even exposing the back of their head or body, which can lead to some really nasty hits to the back of your head or your spine, which are vulnerable areas even when wearing gear, are are often the parts of the body that have the least protective gear. In my opinion, any ruling that is intended to ban gayszlens that we've seen is too broad. banning one-handed cuts (or strikes altogether) means that whole sections of manuscripts or traditions (such as fiore's uno mano plays) can't be performed, banning cuts to the legs or parts of the legs can give an advantage to taller fencers, discarding them automatically because they're too difficult to judge the quality of can punish those who have worked to perfect them safely, etc. At the end of the day it doesn't really make a huge difference one way or the other, and every tournament organizer is biased in the way they make their ruleset one way or the other, but I think the gayszlen is unfairly maligned. In my opinion, with proper attention to levels of force, protective equipment, and judging, the gayszlen deserves a place in modern HEMA tournaments.

ALSO IT HAS GAY IN IT TEEEHEE!!

some people pronounce it "guy-slen" and I usually say "gay-slen" and I don't speak modern or medieval german so idk how it should be pronounced but I like saying gay :) because homosexuality get it???? I

I've made the gayszlen a bit of a meme in my local scene by shouting "GAYSZLEN" whenever I do it, like an anime character. This is typically regarded with friendly annoyance, and it makes hitting this silly ass technique SO much more satisfying and makes whiffing it a lot less embarrassing :)

anyways thanks for reading my long ass post ily <3 if anyone has additional thoughts, please leave them in the comments! I'd rather not debate anything, but I'd be happy to discuss intricacies of the gayszlen's use and interpretation if you're nice about it!

[luimnigh]

A complaint often leveled at superhero media is the idea that Villains are Active, and Heroes are Reactive. That villains are agents of change, while heroes frequently defend the status quo.

And in a world where it's becoming increasingly clear that the systems and institutions need to change in order to make the world a better, more equitable, and habitable-into-the-future place; this is an idea that sees many decide that superheroes are symbolic of those standing in the way of necessary change, and are purposefully ideologically opposed to changs.

However, I don't believe this is an intended message of the genre, but merely a consequence of the fundamental premise of the superhero.

A superhero is a:

morally good

individual

who has the power to do great violence.

Atler any of those three elements, and you're no long dealing with a superhero. The first nets you a villain or an anti-hero, the second instead defines an organisation or a nation, and the third just leaves you with your average person.

But the problem is that those elements combine to create something that is not capable of the widespread societal change we need in real life.

The use of violence to enact change is morally contentious. It is a dangerous way to go about things, because violence is inherently a dangerous thing, and can easily escape the control of the person who starts it. It is generally seen as only acceptable in extreme situations.

But it is the superhero's main form of power. A superhero solves problems with violence. But to solve societal problems with violence is not morally good except in the most extreme situations. Therefore a superhero cannot enact change through violence unless the risk of violence is outweighed by the actual violence caused by the opposing force. Otherwise, they cease to be a superhero, as they cease to be morally good.

And at the same time, as individuals, superheroes cannot unilaterally enact change. That would be imposing the will of a single person, or a small group of people, on the majority. A single person who violently imposes their view of the world is a dictator, and dictatorship is generally seen as morally wrong. And thus, the superhero cannot be a dictator and remain a superhero.

So the very premise of a superhero limits them from enacting societal change, while remaining a superhero.

But supervillains are not bound by such limitations. At the same time, however, a supervillain not being morally good means the societal change they enact will always be a negative change, either because the violence of their methodology risks the innocent, or because of their imposition of their worldview on the populace will always violate the right of the populace to self-determination.

So that's why you only see superheroes fighting to enact societal change when they're up against explicitly violent oppression, either in the form of dictatorial governments or individuals violently imposing their worldview on others, i.e. supervillains.

This is all not to say that no superhero media hasn't ever been made with regressive politics in mind, or hasn't character assassinated an ideology before. Plenty have.

But I am saying that a genre where violence is the main form of power has to be very careful with how their morally good figures use said power, or risk putting out negative messages about the use of violence.

With great power comes great responsibility, not only in how to use the power... but also in how not to use it.

[crossguild]

one piece as a series actually displays an INCREDIBLE sociopolitical awareness that i think gets undersold because lol shonen and man i was NERVOUS about the slavery plotline with the fishmen but in hindsight mr. oda really hit it out of the park because it's not just about 'slavery bad' or 'heroes good because they oppose the bad thing', it's about an entire system that exists to protect and uphold it for the benefit of those in power and really digs into how those cycles of violence are so difficult to break.

op doesn't try to portray the fishmen as perfect victims who're deserving of not being oppressed because they're all actually good and kind people, and it doesn't try to say that liberation and justice is easy or that it comes without cost, nor does it even say that everyone who participates/has participated in the system as an oppressor is actually irredeemably evil. it's clear in that regardless of the good people in power, regardless of the shitty people being oppressed, people can (& must) do what they can to liberate others even if it's hard, even if it feels small or you face setbacks. and even from drum island, we have the message that kindness isn't enough-- you have to be able to leverage that kindness in a meaningful way, which i know twitter activists hate to hear lol.

a less sophisticated series would position luffy as a Hero who is the First Person who has ever thought that the system is bullshit and who has tried to change things and have him succeed in kicking off the great revolution, but OP could not be clearer about how many gears and levers were already turning, how many people were fighting and struggling and living despite that struggle, how much blood and sweat and tears were shed to bring things to a point where luffy COULD be that catalyst to set things in motion.

it sets up all these players who have been building and doing whatever they could with what they had. whitebeard planting his flag to protect FMI, for example, an imperfect solution that ties their safety to his life rather than true liberation, but it's all he could've done at that point and it was an important & meaningful gesture that made such a huge difference to so many people that the fishmen truly considered him their only true human ally. even by the end of fishman island, it doesn't show that luffy has brought freedom to FMI, but that he's helped to take one step in a series of steps that were taken before him and must be taken after him to repair relations between fishmen and humans.

and obviously all of this is analogous to certain real-world historical events which have repercussions to this day and draws heavily from the actual civil rights era of the USA, and we can quibble about how giving that narrative to a super-powered non-human sentient species to deliver a message about Slavery Wrong is a little tired, and i would agree with those criticisms, but somehow this absurdist action-comedy adventure series for boys 13-15 years old manages to nail those themes and stay on message without being preachy or ham-handed. fishman island isn't even my favorite arc but it definitely lives rent-free in my head

[kikyoupdates]

Goddess Wink ⭑˚💘⭑ 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡

bnha x f!reader

reverse harem, my hero academia x fem!reader, slowburn

Ever since your Quirk first manifested, you’ve been the apple of everyone’s eye. With the goal of becoming a hero, you enroll to U.A. and soon find yourself drawing the attention of many. Will you form genuine connections with others, or is this all just your power's will?

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“Special recommendation?”

“Yes,” Mikael nodded. “Based on the information I’ve been able to gather, U.A’s entrance exam consists of fighting large robots and gathering points that will go forward to determine whether or not you earn a passing grade. There is also a written component, which I have no doubt you’ll do well on, but it’s not enough to pass. Your Quirk has no effect on anything besides living people, which unfortunately means their system places you at a disadvantage. Luckily, I happen to have some connections and it’s possible to enroll you in U.A without you taking the exam.”

“But… isn’t that like cheating?”

“It isn’t cheating. They wouldn’t be able to evaluate your powers properly, which is why I’m making sure you get into the school and have a chance to prove yourself.”

“Well… if you say so. I guess it’s true that I can’t do much with my powers unless it’s against an actual person.”

He smiled and patted your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all sorted out. They’ll be receiving your letter of recommendation soon enough, which leaves us time to focus on other matters. I’ve actually got some business in Greece around the time your classes start up, but you should only be missing a few days.”

“What?” you groaned. “I’m coming with you again?”

“Of course. Each visit gives you the opportunity to strengthen your connection to your ancestry. Even if you may not realize it yourself, it helps your powers grow more stable, and deepens your spiritual bond to Aphrodite.”

“Huh… I’m still not all that convinced.”

“Well,” he smiled, “you’ll just have to wait and see.”

It had been just about ten years since Mikael had become your legal guardian. As he’d promised, you’d gained more and more control over your powers, and they were noticeably stronger when activated. A big part of his training regimen was bringing you along on his trips—not just to Greece, but to see the world. He always said that heroes needed to see the big picture, the larger scope of things, and in order to realize just how vast their horizons were, travelling around the world and learning about other people and cultures was essential. As a result, you were almost certain that out of all your future classmates you’d ventured the most outside of Japan.

At first, you’d been opposed to going on your most recent trip to Greece. You did enjoy sightseeing there, and the weather was always beautiful, but you’d been reluctant to miss your first bunch of classes. But after hearing about the villain invasion that had taken place at USJ, you were actually somewhat relieved that you’d gotten to miss out.

“I hope my classmates are nice,” you mumbled to yourself. Tomorrow would mark your very first day at your new school, and you wanted to make a good impression. You’d gone out shopping with the intention of buying some new school supplies, but you’d gotten a little carried away and picked out some new outfits too. Which was frankly quite pointless, since you’d be wearing your uniform the whole time, but oh well.

You were just walking home with your heaps of shopping bags in tow when someone bumped into you, and rather forcefully, at that.

“Oops, sorry,” the boy apologized, offering a sheepish smile. “I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“It’s fine,” you brushed off. “No harm done.”

He continued smiling and standing around, blocking your way. “It must be my lucky day, getting to run into such a beautiful girl. Where are you heading? I can help carry those bags for you.”

So it’s going to be one of these days, I see.

“Thank you, but I’m alright,” you politely declined. “They aren’t heavy or anything, and I’m in a bit of a hurry to get home.”

“Aw, but I feel bad now that I’ve run into you. If you’re just walking, you must live around the area, right? I can escort you there.” He was still smiling, and he ran his fingers along your shoulder, trying to coax you into giving in. You almost laughed at the stupid little display. It was funny how shameless people could be. What kind of person would let a random stranger walk them home?

“I said it’s fine,” you smiled, pink hues filling your irises. “Be a good boy and leave me alone now, okay?”

“Ah—” He stiffened all at once, fingers slipping off your shoulder. His vision had gone glassy, eyes glazed over, and his cheeks were distinctly flushed. “Oh… my bad,” he slurred. “I didn’t m-mean to—”

His knees buckled underneath him, and he passed out right onto the floor. You looked down at him with your lips pursed.

“It was a lot stronger than I was going for. Well, he must’ve been attracted to me a fair deal if he was trying so hard.” You stooped down to a crouch and whispered into his ear. “When you come to, head home and get a good rest in bed. Don’t try to harass any other girls on your way.”

You adjusted the bags in your grip and continued walking on, ignoring the cluster of people that were now swarming around the unconscious boy. Freja greeted you in the lobby once you were home, helping take the bags off your hands.

She smiled. “It seems like you bought quite a lot, [Name]. Wasn’t this just supposed to be for school supplies?”

“Yeah,” you chuckled awkwardly. “I saw a bunch of cute clothes and just got carried away…”

“I’m sure they’ll all look lovely on you. Mikael is waiting in your room. I believe he wanted to have a quick chat with you since you’re starting at U.A tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thanks, Freja.”

“My pleasure.”

As promised, Mikael was waiting in your room, eating chocolate on your bed, of all things. You puffed out your cheeks and let out a squeal of protest.

“Hey!” you cried out. “No eating chocolate or messy desserts on the bed! I just replaced those sheets!”

He blinked innocently, even though he had melted chocolate all over his lips and fingers. You sighed and grabbed a handful of napkins before taking a seat beside him.

“Hello, [Name],” he smiled. “How was your shopping trip?”

You dabbed at the corners of his lips with the napkins. “It was fine. Some guy was hitting on me while I was heading back, and I used my Quirk on him. He passed out even though I wasn’t trying to get him to.”

“Did he come into contact with you?”

“Yeah. Well, he touched me, but I didn’t touch him back. I just used my voice.”

“I see.” He waited for you to finish wiping him off before twirling a lock of your hair through his fingers. “Different people are bound to experience different levels of attraction and thus react differently to your powers. It’s always going to be challenging to figure out just how effective your Quirk is against certain people.” He extended the half-eaten chocolate bar towards you. “Want a bite?”

“No thank you. Actually, please put that away. You’re making a mess.”

Seemingly defying human limits, he managed to fit the rest of the chocolate bar into his mouth. “I’ll be putfing togesher a nishe dinnar tonifte. To shelebrate yhu starting skhool.”

“Please don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Mikael swallowed the rest with a big gulp, licking the remnants off his lips. “You must be excited. Many of the most renowned heroes made their start at U.A. And with a Quirk like yours, there’s no limit to the amount of people you’ll be able to save.”

You looked up at him in earnest. “You really think so?”

“Of course. You have the gods—quite literally—on your side.”

You laughed a little at that. Still, you couldn’t deny how excited you were. You’d trained your Quirk all these years in preparation for this. Maybe it was that spiritual sense that Mikael claimed you were developing, but something told you the group of people you’d meet there would forever change your future.

“Are you all ready, transfer student?”

“Yes. I’m fine, but… are you sure you’re okay? Your entire face is wrapped in bandages…”

You were officially on U.A's campus, and who else to greet you but the homeroom teacher in charge of Class 1-A—Aizawa Shouta. Or, more commonly known as Eraserhead. He wasn’t the first pro hero that came to mind, since he was so elusive and underground, but you’d definitely heard of him every now and then. A hero with the ability to erase Quirks. Put that way, it was highly unlikely your powers would affect him… guess you couldn’t charm your way out of trouble, then.

“It’s not something you need to worry about,” Aizawa deadpanned. No doubt he’d gotten those injuries during the USJ invasion that had just happened, but to think that he was still teaching under those conditions was crazy. “I’ll enter first and quickly announce to the class that we’ve got a new student, and you follow after. Okay?”

“Sounds good.”

With that, he opened the door to the classroom and strode in, completely ignoring the concerned and bewildered cries of his students. He waited for them to quiet down before making his announcement. The class went silent, and you took that as your cue to walk in.

I’m a little nervous, but here goes!

You stopped in front of the class, swiveling on your heel to face everyone. “I’m [Last Name] [Name],” you greeted with a smile. “For various reasons, I wasn’t able to make it for the first days of classes, but it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

The room was still silent. Everyone’s eyes were glued to you, but no one was saying a word. You’d been standing there for a good while now, and you were starting to feel a little apprehensive. Had you said something wrong? Was there something on your face, or—

“Whoa! What a beauty!” a blonde male with a lightning bolt in his hair exclaimed.

“She’s so pretty!” a pink-haired girl gushed. “Oh my god, oh my god! She looks like a model!”

“That’s crazy! I had no idea we’d be getting another classmate!”

“[Name]-chan, right? I’m Uraraka!”

“Call me Tsuyu.”

“Hey, hey—what kind of music do you like? Pop? Rock? Punk?”

It had only taken seconds for the entire class to turn to uproar. You chuckled inwardly, unable to keep track of the ridiculous amount of questions being thrown your way. Even though you’d gotten a late start, everyone seemed really nice, so you were relieved.

Aizawa let out a weary groan. You couldn’t make out his expression behind all those bandages, but you had a feeling he was scowling. “Everyone’s being too loud. [Name], there’s an empty seat over there next to Bakugou. That’ll be your desk.”

You smiled, making your way over with a spring in your step. Everywhere you looked, friendly faces were smiling at you. Some were boisterous and loud—like the pink-haired girl and the other guy—while others were more subtle with their excitement—like the freckled boy seated behind you who kept blushing and averting eye contact, all the while trying to maintain a wobbly smile. And then there was the ash blonde beside you. Aizawa said his name was Bakugou or something. He was the only one out of the whole class who was outright glaring at you, for whatever reason. You couldn’t recall the last time someone had looked at you with such distaste, so drastically in contrast to desire.

You smiled coyly, leaning over in your seat to whisper to him. “It’s nice to meet you,” you said, eyes glowing the faintest shade of pink. The anger left his expression for just a moment, and his crimson eyes widened in surprise as a blush settled across his cheeks. You canceled your Quirk immediately after, and he stared at you in confusion before scowling and snapping his head away.

Oops. Maybe I shouldn’t have teased him like that.

You placed your hands on your lap and leaned back in your chair. You could already tell you were really going to like this class.

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