#why are all this fascists hanging around here

[raziraphale]

was blocking a transphobe and scrolled through their blog a bit to block a few more while I was there and found this response on a masterpost of G/C ""sources"":

like I feel like if a post was going around my circles linking to a leader of a hate group (legally considered a terrorist group where I live) I would at least reflect a bit on what that might say about my own ideology. Idk man maybe that's just me

[spacedykensfw3]

Sending horny out of the room for a bit here. Just checking in. It’s been a rough 24 hours and I know I am not the only one having a less than stellar time. This is a horny side blog so it hasn’t really been a hotspot for political discourse (but apparently philosophical discourse about the what and why of various kinks lmao) but in case it wasn’t clear, we hate fascists here!

That said, (and I may be speaking a little too early, everything is still very fresh,) things might get a little bit lighter around here, at least for a while, because the specter of transphobic/homophobic/misogynistic violence just got a hell of a lot more real (not that they weren’t real before, but… you get the point, I think; you follow me, after all.)

I don’t have a whole lot of words of comfort or advice, but I do know these things: Plan B has a shelf life of 4 years, you can get 3 months of the over the counter birth control pill Opill for $45 on Amazon (or 4 months for about $50 at Costco), and there are still a lot of doctors out there who will do informed consent sterilizations. Hang in there.

[cloutchaserkineme]

wagging

4:38 p.m. October 13 on land somewhere

I was honestly so intrigued by how many people seem to hate Kelly and Max together. I always give things like this a grain of salt, especially with WAGs, since girls always get the brunt of the hate when it comes to high-profile sport couples, because these men are "successful" in a heteronormative sense (they are physically fit and able-bodied, in a male-dominated sport etc.) and therefore the public wants whoever is their partner is to be the same type of successful (beautiful, single, and complements something of the guys' persona). Especially since he's a Libra sun lmao, these signs tend to get the absolute shit if their partners don't "match" them, a manifestation of Venus and Saturn's hatred of non-symmetry.

I've only been interested in F1 for a week, and am just catching up to the dense lore of this highly exclusive and limiting sport, and like any other person I pick my favorites for the most arbitrary reasons- Lewis Hamilton, because he dated my FIlipina queen Nicole Scherzinger, and is probably the only POC driver on the grid who I know actively speaks up on social issues at risk to himself and his career; Alex Albon for consciously choosing to be a Southeast Asian king as well as being a loud and proud WAG to Lily He; and Max Verstappen, for featuring in Cleo Abrams' F1 videos (which kickstarted my interest in this sport in the first place).

But I am of course wondering why people don't like Max's girlfriend. Or at least, the internet circles that I am in don't have a favorable view of her.

(The internet circles I am in talk about her father supporting the Brazilian fascist Bolsonaro, as well as her liking her father's post referring to the Black/mixed race driver on the grid using a racial slur, and Max supporting the PR statement released about that. But I am not talking about my beloved mutuals and our anger at white supremacy somehow finding its fucking way in all aspects of the world. I am talking about the girlies who absolutely hate Kelly just for being Max's girlfriend, when there are tons of reasons we really should just not care about them, or the sport at all.)

It baffled me because on paper M/K are arguably good- both creatures of the racing track, successful scions of F1 families. Him, the best racehorse in the racehorse competition; Her, daddy's girl who grew up around the track, respecting and admiring the horse race. He is a "successful man" in that he dedicated his life to excelling in sport, a move which fulfilled his father's wishes (a win for patriarchy), and she is a "successful woman" in that she is a conventionally attractive supermodel, did not eclipse her father's success, and had a child with a person who belonged in their sphere of influence.

And yet, this girl is haaaaated by the fans among the current WAGs. Baffling! And it's not even because she's conventionally pretty! Alex Saint-Mleux was also hated when she debuted, but the halo effect at least worked on her (a trend that fascinates me, how people also arbitrarily hate women in the spotlight, because I have never seen these F1 WAGs hang out and have fun as a group outside of the paddock and the men in their lives. If they keep their friendship private good for them, but the original WAGs of Victoria Beckham's time were pictured on their outings together... it might be because most of them are of different ages, or the current celebrity culture in the time of cameras makes privacy a luxury now compared to then, which is why the WAGs of F1, arguably considered a more luxurious sport than others, hate being public but! I digress.)

Anyway! synastry of Max and Kelly on the chart here (Inner wheel is Max's confirmed time with an astro.com A rating, while outer wheel is Kelly's natal chart, generated at 12 noon due to lack of confirmed birth time- so ignore the ASC and POF)

First off- that 12H synastry clouds this relationship to the general public. Whatever Max thinks of her, we will never know, but we can intuit from the chart that he thinks of Kelly as an ideal woman- his Scorpio Venus (traditionally "partner" or "wife" in a man's chart) hits her own natal Venus, and perhaps if she was born from early morning to late afternoon, also conjunct her Moon (physical body and expression).

For Max, women usually show up as:

sharp and confusing. the 12H is the house of undoing, unconsciousness, and hidden/foreign objects. he likes the thrill of the chase but won't fully understand why he runs so

wanting something more from him. scorpio as a mars-ruled sign is a sign of action, will, and drive, but the expression of it in water can sometimes make it more intense- think of being stabbed with a large icicle compared to an icepick; or a stalactite falling from the cave ceiling compared to other irregular shaped rocks.

foreign, to the point that the girl may stand out as "being the only one" or isolated. the 12H is hidden from the 1H traditionally, the same way that the conscious mind (1H) could never comprehend the true meaning of dreams and the subconscious (12H). and it is the house where the person literally couldn't know anything- it is the stuff behind them. the 12H is enemies, undoing, jail, prison, places abroad that you will never explore, sleep. not necessarily bad things, but certainly things that make you feel excluded. but how can you be cast out if you didn't know you were exiled in the first place, right?

anyway yeah- that's the general view on how women, as a romantic partner, show up in max's chart.

to overlay her planets on his, there's two hotspots that are of interest- one is kelly's fiery mars that is very happily expressed in aries, and also rules her scorpio planets. her way of action, of being a woman, her feisty, assertive, and perhaps rebellious side intrigues him. what he feels restricted by, she finds freedom in. max, like every other racer currently on the grid right now, is a creature of speed, of action and drive, but the warrior in him is confined to a grid, to a track, to the car. it is good for him that he is naturally smart and detail-oriented, and that F1 takes place around the world (change of scenery is important for sagittarius), so he can find his own satisfaction despite these limitations.

however kelly is really great at choosing the straightest path from a to b. she is direct, and won't subscribe to limitations as well as max does. she will do what she wants. while this might be a turn off for other men, i don't think it is the same for max- he is a martial person. he likes when things go zoom, he likes thrills (not fights- which i will get into when i compare the lestappen synastry soon), and kelly being straightforward and direct is exactly what he wants to see. also her mars in his 5H of romance is literally at its most simple explanation- he finds her attractive and she gets him hard.

the other hotspot is her moon. depending on what time of the day she was born, kelly might have scorpio or sagittarius moon, but I haven't really done a deep dive of her public persona to check which one it is most likely to be. whatever it is, her moon- which represents the physical body as well as emotions/heart- may be hitting his 12H scorpio venus, OR his mars in sagittarius, which is a very potent moon-mars synastry, at which point, it is game over for anyone else who wants to be called mrs. max verstappen.

because whichever one it is, max isn't letting go of her.

max has a gentle streak outside of the hellzone that is the circuit, he has moon and mercury in virgo, along with scorpio venus- traditionally feminine planets in cold signs. he has a close relationship and respect for his mother, he seems to get along well with penelope, and even though he hates the media so he won't participate in most of the marketing bonding strategies on camera, he is constantly referred to as connecting to the other drivers by texting them, including them in conversations, or acknowledging the retired legends.

max has a certain delicacy that he might not even realize is there, but since kelly embodies (moon) this, literally, he feels connected to her in ways he can't with other people. it is very isolating, to be max verstappen, three time world champion and son of jos verstappen, and despite living parallel lives with other drivers, they don't get what it is-

it being, women die on the track. not literally, thank god, but actually, women as an archetype, a medium of creation/agriculture, the first sign of civilization- this is the patriarchy's motorsport, F1 engines and its innovations are a remnant of war & destruction, playing and improving on the heart of dead beasts in steel bodies. choosing glory over women, women as supporters and on the sidelines, and some part of him recognizes that this thing that he has dedicated his life to wouldn't be a safe space for that energy. but he can't give up the race, the same way he couldn't help but be born to his mom.

however, kelly could survive in it- she's a child of the war races too. he feels comfortable knowing she won't be chewed up and spit out by whatever monster of male-first principles feeds off of women and their lives on this track.

that one interview kelly gave where she said that there was something "magical that night" that her and max met, she probably wasn't exaggerating. whether kelly has her moon in his 12H or 1H, or whatever house max's planets fall in her chart, the attraction is there and it is blinding. this relationship could also probably be a source of undoing for max, but i don't think that's likely. i also think that max, despite being a teenager when they first met, was probably waiting all these years for her to be single enough to make his move but then again, i am just a chick on the internet who speculates using esoteric means. i don't know what happened there, just what is shown right now.

i also think that max could only end up with two types of women- one who was born and raised in the same fire from the start, like kelly, or one who is completely removed from the F1 ecosystem entirely, like, idk. a coffee farmer in belize who moonlights as a go go dancer at crazy horse whose special interest is the history of color palettes; or a former astronaut-turned-mugler muse; or a professional, duly-licensed clown for hire who also happens to own a construction company that specializes in eco-concrete. just someone who is so different from what he is that they would never be affected by the pitfalls of a life on the racing circuit. either way, she's got to keep up with his high octane life as much as possible.

(and smart. they have to be smart and loving with their words. he would not tolerate it otherwise. 5H and 12H connections are all good for casual relationships, but the 7H is where the first marriage is seen- and his L7 is Mercury exalted in Virgo 10H, next to his moon. whoever ends up marrying him will attract a lot of criticism as well as idolatry- which is why they have to be witty as hell to transmute that energy into something beautiful.)

However, his Saturn 5H and his Sun, in the exaltation of Libra, may mellow it out over time. No matter who he partners with, as long as he stays with them for a long time, the public will soon warm up to them. Saturn likes longevity, a lesson that some Libras on the grid don't seem to care about, but I digress.

(30)

2:12 p.m. October 14 2024 (because I went out with friends yesterday and cooked soup and slept like a baby)

[suzukiblu]

 Ko-fi thank-you sentences for @this-was-a-terrible-idea behind the cut; nineties "Captain America" ride or die. ( chrono || non-chrono )

Hawaii is . . . a place. The asset might actually hate it, which is almost a novelty at this point in its existence. Hating something that isn’t a fascist organization or a murderous supervillain is something it honestly thought it’d forgotten how to do. 

It’s a weapon, after all. A weapon and a thing and not enough of a person to hate things like “getting too much sun” and “too many tourists on the beach”. 

There really are a fucking lot of tourists, though.

The asset suspects that Captain America just picked up the first brochure he saw at the airport and has been following its advice, as opposed to, he doesn’t know, asking a single fucking local where a quieter place to hang out might be? 

Then again, Captain America seems to be enjoying the scenery. By which the asset means people-watching all the pretty dames in unexpectedly skimpy swimsuits. Which is definitely not typical Captain America behavior, but . . . well, what the hell does the asset know, anyway? The kid’s closer to the height it remembers, at least, if still a lot thicker. And his face looks right. And his tendency to get himself punched in the face, that’s right too. 

The eyes are definitely right. 

The asset gave Captain America its leather jacket for civilian camouflage on the way here. The kid proceeded to wear it over the damn armor because he refuses to wear anything but the armor, and also sewed a giant white star patch to the back of it and bought the douchiest sunglasses that the future has ever produced to wear with it. The asset has never previously seen cause to use the word “douchiest” in cold blood, but Captain America has once again expanded its horizons in new and unanticipated ways. 

Fuckin’ punk. 

“Punk” has some different definitions in the future, apparently, but Captain America seems determined to live up to all of them. 

The asset also hates punk music, it turns out. Go figure. 

How the fuck do people even dance to that shit, though? 

. . . well, now it sounds like an actual centenarian, it guesses. Great. Which it is, technically, but that’s not the fucking point, alright? It’s a goddamn old man yelling at the kids on the corner for playing too loud or whatever, apparently. 

As much as it counts as a “man”, anyway, old or not. 

“Damn,” Captain America whistles, peering over his glasses at the back of a very pretty dame who’s just walked by. 

The asset is increasingly certain something is awry here. 

“You really should pick an alias, Cap,” it says. 

“Why?” Captain America says, wrinkling his nose at it. 

Because there is absolutely no way HYDRA is not going to find us while you’re walking around in their gear in public with their shield on your back, but I would like to at least PRETEND we’re trying to hide, the asset doesn’t say. 

“It’d make it easier to avoid HYDRA’s attention,” it says instead. Baby steps or whatever. 

Captain America, unfortunately, is still the same stubborn little shit he’s always been, and “baby steps” have absolutely never worked on him. 

“So what?” he says. “We’ll just kick their asses if they do.” 

The asset really should’ve known better. 

“Understood,” it says instead of You’re a fucking idiot, kid, because . . . because it’s not the person who’s allowed to say things like that to Captain America.

It doesn’t have the right to be that person anymore. 

Doesn’t deserve to be. 

“Wanna hit the waves?” Captain America suggests. The asset will literally never want to do that, but supposes it should appreciate being asked for its opinion.

“No,” it says. Captain America doesn’t tase it for the refusal, which is . . . novel, again. 

It really had forgotten how to say that word, it thinks, but Captain America has definitely reintroduced it to its vocabulary. Both in DC and in that lab, and especially ever since following him out of that lab. 

The asset was really not prepared to have to explain why the legal drinking age applies to Captain America, for one thing. Though it’s not like alcohol really affects him, so . . . 

It’s very difficult to explain to Captain America why a rule or law that he thinks is stupid or irrelevant is a rule or law that he should still consider listening to, is the thing. More accurately, it’s a fucking moron’s game, and most of the time the best the asset can do is distract or reroute him. 

Still. Walking into a club or bar in HYDRA-issue stars-and-stripes body armor and ordering a cocktail that looks like the damn Fourth of July while undeniably a teenager would definitely draw both unnecessary and unwanted attention. 

Also, the drinks are too damn expensive these days anyway, to say nothing of the damn cover charges. If the asset hears that “inflation” bullshit one more time, it’s gonna go goddamn dig up Reagan and kill him deader. 

Trickle-down economics its ass. 

“C’mon, Buck, you’re supposed to be the fun one, aren’t you?” Captain America teases it with a smirk, pushing his stupid douchey sunglasses up into his hair. The asset cannot think of a single thing more “fun” than avoiding ending up in HYDRA’s many arms again. Not regularly getting its brains fried out of its head is in fact the most fun it’s ever had in its life. 

Seriously. Fuck everything else except that. There is not a single damn thing the asset wouldn’t rather do than that. 

Except for be face-to-face with Steve Rogers again, obviously. 

“I’m too busy sweatin’ to death for fun, Cap,” it says dubiously, hitching its heavy duffel bag up a little higher on the metal shoulder that’s currently mostly-camouflaged by a denim jacket and an unfortunate embarrassment of a Hawaiian shirt that Captain America had laughed at it for wearing. The asset doesn’t experience embarrassment when the alternative is sticking out like a sore thumb and obvious target, for obvious reasons, but Captain America apparently didn’t get that memo and had again refused to wear anything but the body armor. 

Christ’s sake, they’re on a goddamn tropical island. Isn’t that fucking hot? 

Stubborn little shit. 

The stupid bullheaded stubbornness is SOP for Captain America, at least. 

“Toldja you were overdressed,” Captain America hums. The asset rolls its eyes, which is a strange impulse, but it does it before it thinks better of it and then it’s already done it, so fuck it. 

“You’re wearin’ a leather jacket and fuckin’ nanobot-enforced Kevlar right now,” it reminds him dubiously. 

“Breathes pretty good, actually,” Captain America says with a grin, adjusting his lapels as he preens. 

The asset genuinely does not know what its life even is anymore.

[robthegoodfellow]

May I Find You One December RENAMED Here I Go Again

1: Don't Know Where I'm Going, Sure Know Where I've Been

for @fizzigigsimmer

(caligator, referenced past harringrove, age difference, referenced character death, references to neofascism/evangelicalism)

.

Billy’d been warned against stopping in Stark County, but when you had to go, you had to go—and anyway, he was running low on gas. And snacks. 

And, since he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, it’d be wise to get out, work the rust from his joints a bit. 

Glancing around as he filled the tank, the town looked normal enough; your average main drag in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota. Couple sleepy shops, general store, dinky diner—one of those blue lives matter flags hanging limp by the door, vivid polyester garish against all the beige. 

Basic shit. 

No obvious signs of a place under the iron thumb of a white nationalist evangelical militia, and he was just about to roll the dice on that diner, maybe snag a coffee and a slice of pie, when a police cruiser ambled into view, pulled into the fueling station opposite.

Just his fucking luck.

Billy studied the pump, face schooled a pleasant bland. Marveled at how, even after all these years, his days of tussling with fascist pigs long behind him, the same wolves were stirring in his head. One baring its teeth on a low growl, ready and willing to tear the fucker to shreds, the other poised, still as stone, itching to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

At fifty years old—fifty plus, but who was counting—he preferred neither option. The meter clicked off, and he watched his hands replace the nozzle, screw on the gas cap.

Even his hands were fucking old. Thicker—blocky knuckles. Veins starting to bulge. Grandpa hands. 

Sense memory flashed, suppressed so quick and smooth it left barely a ripple. Wouldn’t do to indulge in fond longing for those gay glory days, for the hands he still missed like phantom limbs, some nights, this aching absence. Not within spitting distance of a patrol car. 

Because why test the thought police, right? He could reminisce on youthful love lost when he was back on the highway, heading west.

Good boy, he heard, like Billy had a tin can cupped to his ear, the string trailing off into the fog of time. 

So strange what stayed sharp, he mused, rounding the hood, gripping his keys. Behind him, the cruiser door swung open with a creak. Like—despite the photos, it was hard to really conjure the face, hold it steady in his mind. A face through a window in the rain, and more so as the years slid by. But that voice still whispered clear as day—sometimes a Jiminy Cricket, keeping Billy out of trouble, sometimes a little prankster demon, pure trickster. 

And the hands. The feel of those hands had never left him, touch embedded in the skin.

He sniffed, ducking his chin, scolding himself. So much for smothering his inner queer.

The door was open, sanctuary of the driver’s seat calling his name, when something drew his attention across the way—some movement, maybe, or shift in the air. Pulling his gaze, against his better judgment, to meet the bored stare of the emerging cop.

His chest—seized, breath caught in tight lungs by a tighter throat. Distantly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like—crushed in a cold fist.

Because the eyes staring back at him were Steve’s. The furrowed brow above lips pinched in a frown. The lines of his jaw, his nose. Like the rain had stopped and he could see him clear through the pane. Then the lips twisted, a sudden sneer, straight out of senior year.

“Got a problem, pal?” 

Billy blinked rapid, took in the flak jacket and badge announcing him as the Sheriff’s stooge, the douchey camo hoodie layered underneath, dark hair slicked back, sides shaved like he’d stepped off the cover of Nazi Vogue.

What the fuck.

“Asked you a question, old man.”

Billy coughed, half a laugh, half choke, and shook his head. Same voice—his voice. Steve’s. Only the tone was all wrong—mean and self-important—more like… like Billy, once upon a time.

Like if his old bratty attitude and Steve’s voice had a baby. That’s what he was hearing right now. Like—

Wrenching his brain back on track, Billy rebooted. Cut him off before the brat could launch another volley.

“Sorry, officer,” he said, and couldn’t help it—the amusement thrumming beneath the words, or more accurately, the unhinged hysteria. “Must be going senile.”

The eyes narrowed—assuming that if he wasn’t in on the joke, he must be the butt of it.

“In fact,” Billy went on, blindly following some instinct, he knew not where. “Think I might be having some heart trouble.”

The cop did not spring to the aid of a needy citizen, but eyed him skeptically. “You smell burnt toast?”

“That’s for a stroke,” Billy corrected, and he’d gone and done it again—only this time a fondness threading the wry mockery. “Heart attack is pain in your arm and whatnot.”

The brat didn’t shoot him dead for perceived disrespect, which was something. Really he just seemed—confused. Baffled. And boy, Billy was right there with him.

This wasn’t Steve, he reminded himself. Wasn’t him. Just a random dead ringer in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota, a likely foot soldier in the brutal local militia.

And Billy should just leave him to it, obviously. Because this wasn’t Steve.

So—bid the doppelganger adieu, get the hell out of dodge. Billy cleared his throat.

“Don’t suppose protect and serve extends to helping some geezer find a place to eat while he rests awhile?”

Now the perplexed indignation was out in force, head tilted so far to the side it was liable to roll off his neck.

Hand to God, Billy thought he’d kicked the death wish long ago—his Y2K resolution—and yet here he was. Still talking, coaxing the neofascist to come closer, chucking all caution to the wind for a pair of pretty, over-familiar eyes.

“C’mon,” he said, and made the smirk self-deprecating. “I make it across the street without keeling over, I’ll buy ya a coffee.”

The brat straightened, something like tolerant intrigue settled in the quirk of his brow. “All right, then, old timer.” As they stepped off the sidewalk: “Don’t expect me to hold your elbow or nothing.”

“Oh, nah,” Billy replied, waving him off. “Dignity won’t allow it.” And then—he winked. Winked at the boogaloo boy. He’d lost his mind. Farewell, sanity.  “Name’s Billy.”

No response from the boy in blue until they reached the diner steps. “I’m Gator,” he said, hauling the door open, gruffness at odds with the tinkling bell.

To his credit, Billy didn’t break down into gibbering laughter.

Gator. This asshat wearing Steve’s face, this Duck Dynasty heir apparent—was named Gator.

Way off in Indiana, Steve must’ve been rolling in his grave.

Next

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 10: Wild Mint

One day, Holford awoke from a fitful nap to find the wagon a little brighter than normal. Tommy had left the doors ajar. Refusing the call of the sunshine and fresh air, Holford returned to his position facing the dark wall. He could smell wood-smoke from the campfire. A breeze stirred the curtains and the tassels.

After a while, Tommy’s voice came from outside.

“Are you awake?”

“...Yes.”

“Then come out here.”

Dragging himself out of his torpor, Holford rose, drew his blanket around his shoulders, and limped towards the wagon’s doors. He stepped blinking out into the sunshine, onto the narrow ledge where the driver would perch. Tommy was sitting with his legs hanging over the side, chewing on something. A small sprig of green.

“What do you want?” Holford asked. His tone was subdued and his posture defeated.

“Fancy one?” Tommy offered up a leaf.

“What is it?”

“Mint.”

Holford accepted, and nibbled the edge of  the leaf cautiously. He expected it to taste like dirt, but it had the familiar cooling flavour, albeit with a bitter edge.

“Sit next to me,” said Tommy.

Holford obeyed, wincing as he manoeuvred himself down. He rested his feet on the steps which led down onto the grass; and turned his face towards the clouds, feeling the cool sunshine and fresh breeze on his skin. For a while, the two men sat in silence - Tommy chewing, Holford merely existing.

“Do you like horses?” Tommy finally spoke.

“I suppose so.”

“Do you keep any?”

“No. I prefer a car. It’s faster. And cleaner.”

“Afraid of a bit of dirt?”

“Well, I am a doctor, Mister Shelby.”

“True enough. Do you go to the races?”

“If obligation demands it. I don’t much enjoy crowds, though.”

“Not clean enough for you?”

“Not calm enough. I don’t like ruckus and sweat.”

“Or fun, by the sounds of it.” Tommy offered him another leaf. “Lived in Derbyshire long?”

“All my life.”

“Grew up in that house, eh?”

“It belonged to my mother’s side of the family. I was an only child, so when she and my father passed away, I inherited everything.”

“What happened to them?”

“Spanish influenza. The second wave of the pandemic, the winter of 1918. Even the rich weren’t spared its ravages.”

“Let me guess - that’s why you went into medicine.”

“Yes.”

“1918,” Tommy mused. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Who took care of you until your eighteenth birthday?”

“My servants. And, I suppose, distant relatives who wanted my money.”

“I see. How was your life before that?”

“Idyllic. Carefree. My mother was kind and my father…worked a lot, which suited us fine. I spent my time reading, dancing, singing, playing the piano. I had no troubles.”

“Sounds like paradise.” Tommy picked the final leaf off the sprig, popping it in his mouth. He flicked away the naked stem. “Do you travel much? When you’re not showing up at fascist weddings, I mean.”

“A few times a year. Medical conferences and such. Berlin, Munich, Paris.”

“You don’t travel for pleasure?”

“My work keeps me too busy.”

“You should try it some time. Take a break, get away from everyone. Like me - sometimes I just hop in a caravan and drive. Don’t need to go anywhere in particular, just drive. Enjoy the solitude, listen to the trees, eat what you catch with your own two hands. It clears the head. Gives you perspective.”

“Tommy,” Holford interrupted. “If you let me live, I am never setting food in the countryside again. I’ll stay in central London until the day I die.”

“Good to know. Maybe it’s different for me. My father was an Irish Traveller, my mother was a Gypsy. The countryside’s in my blood.” Tommy stretched a little, and rolled his stiff neck until it clicked. “I imagine you keep an extensive library in that big house. What books do you read?”

“Textbooks, mostly. I was obliged to learn the great classics at school, but I always preferred non-fiction for some reason. I suppose I thought real life was already strange and ridiculous enough, it didn’t need embellishment. What about you?”

“I’m partial to Shakespeare, as you may have guessed. And Dickens. What about sports, do you play any sports?”

“Mister Shelby, why are you asking me all these questions?”

“When you’ve been living with a man for over a month, and sharing a bunk on occasion, it seems appropriate to get to know him.”

“There’s not much to know. I’m an ordinary person.” Holford’s feet were getting cold. He drew them up inside the blanket.

“You never sang for me,” said Tommy.

“Pardon?”

“You offered to sing for me. I’m taking you up on that offer.”

“Mm…maybe another time. My throat’s still a little sore.”

“Fine. A poem, then. You seem like the sort of man who knows a poetry book by heart.”

“You think too highly of me. Let me think.” Holford sighed, rifling through mental filing cabinets that had grown dusty from neglect. “Alright, here’s one. When, like committed linnets, I with shriller throat shall sing - ”

“What is this?”

“Lovelace’s tribute to Althea. Written 1642.”

“I can’t say I know it.”

“Well, I have a fondness for old, doomed melancholics. I with shriller throat shall sing the sweetness, mercy, majesty, and glories of my King: when I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be; enlarged winds, that curl the flood, know no such liberty - ”

“Christ.”

“Mister Shelby, please.”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage: minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free; angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty.”

“Very nice.”

“What about you? Recite me something.”

“In the bleak midwinter,” Tommy began, and then stopped. “I think that’s enough poetry.”

“You can’t finish what you started?”

“Judging by the fact that you’re still alive, no, it seems I can’t.”

Holford was shivering now. His nose and ears were turning pink from the cold.

“I’d like to go back inside, please,” he said.

“Aye, go on, then.”

Holding his blanket tight around him, Holford turned and disappeared back into the wagon - back into the semi-darkness and the cramped bunk with which he’d become far too familiar.

And so their routine continued, with one new addition: when the weather was mild, the doctor would join Tommy outside, to talk or simply to sit in silence. The extent of Holford’s liberty grew further and further, until he was sitting on the bottom step, then on the grass, then by the small campfire where Tommy cooked their supper. Tommy no longer bothered closing the doors, leaving them wide-open when the weather permitted it.

The rabbits which Tommy brought back were already skinned - he never did the skinning in front of Holford. Partly because he didn’t want to spill blood in the camp, and partly because he didn’t want to trigger memories of the doctor’s torture. Holford would always be haunted by the spectre of Pascoe, but Tommy shielded him from the recollection in whatever small ways he could.

Holford didn’t have the stomach to help spit-roast the rabbits, but he helped with the herbs and wild-flowers that Tommy gathered; picking apart the leaves and the stems. He had to ask Tommy what they were. Mint, nettles, dandelion, sorrel, yarrow, wild garlic. None of it anything he would’ve considered eating a month ago, but all of it precious. He watched the leaves and petals wilt in the simmering water, imparting flavour to the lean meat, and tried to discern if the steam smelled different.

Finally, there came a morning when the dressings were taken off for the last time. The site was ugly and tender, and it would still need to be washed regularly, but it was no longer an open wound. He would remember the feel of the knife every time he saw it, every time his sleeve dragged over it; but every day, Pascoe’s ghost grew more faint while Holford’s mind grew more clear. More awake. More alive.

Chapter 11: Home

[mixupmycota]

veilguard thoughts, general thematic discussions and spoiler notice for around the mid game up until the back quarter, but no big plot discussions

was talking with a friend and i really appreciate, and more so into my second run, how actually both the antaam and the venatori do have a considerable amount of depth to them as antagonists, it's just not surface level

both groups are reactionary and driven by a desire to, respectively, colonize for the antaam and for the venatori, relaunch tevinter into a direct imperialistic era of past glory

the antaam do not have the infrastructure to achieve their goals on a material or spiritual level, so all they can do is keep moving or occupy. the venatori 10 years ago in inquisition were a growing, but publicly and in polite company considered fringe, group. 10 years later they are deeply embedded into the political structures of minrathous, much more mask off (ironically), but they are being significantly harried by resistance.

when ghilan'nain promises the antaam mythological perfection and bodily refinement, they subsume themselves, the most fervent and promising of them for her needs become transfigured into living war machines, near mindless, and this is aspirational for many of them as a result of their previous roles once they are under sway.

one of our qunari antagonists is expressly misogynistic and ill informed on the subject he seeks to use for propaganda and covets an ability that comes naturally to another, which thematically is so fucking good actually i can't go into it without being much more spoilery.

but elgarnan just follows the points of ur-fascism like a checklist when it comes to the venatori, and they are transformed into even more of a death cult. their combat barks reflect this, how they will rail against their compatriots dying but when it is their turn, their deaths are suddenly heroic and sacrifices for the gods.

some of them have conversations where they struggle to reconcile working with the antaam, where they talk themselves around to taking orders from the elven gods despite the hate they have for the elves.

if you just launch straight into a fight it can be easy to miss these though.

what we have here is a metaphor for mass right wing radicalization, a demonstration of how individual fascist groups will subsume their cultural and personal identities if a sufficiently powerful and charismatic figurehead comes forward to promise their leaders more influence and security in their own goals, until they are ultimately living mouthpieces for them. How this results in a outward presence of homogeneity and unity that collapses under any pressure and scrutiny.

many of our enemies in veilguard are people who have been indoctrinated by the idea of fascist heroism, of throwing their lives away in a glorious purpose that will restore the forgotten glories of the past and usher in a golden age built on bones. both the venatori and antaam in veilguard wind up in an end state where they require perpetual war to justify their own existence, and cannot stop or reflect on what they have done. those who attempt to do so, or defect, also face death.

that is also the danger our team face multiple times, of falling into those same traps while in the fight against it, which is repeatedly ground in as a theme of the game overall. there's no right or wrong answer to their arcs, I think, but each has an option that's far more conservative and in line with the status quo. It's fun to consider why my character would influence those decisions in any direction when he was able too.

regret hangs over this story, it's what it's built on. how it blinds people to opportunities for growth, how nostalgia and a desire to preserve and rebuild can at times become deadly poisonous, how many of our enemies are people trying to do what they think is best and how destructive that is because they can't address their own issues.

love this game

[liesmyth]

director's commentary on turn our golden faces into the sun, the karaiti au :)

yesssss thank you for letting me yap about this! Neglected Rich Kid Gideon... I have Thoughts about this!

turn our golden faces into the sun (The Locked Tomb, Gideon/Harrow; HtN era canon divergence AU)

After Canaan House and Cytherea's death, Harrow wakes up on the Erebos as a newly-made Lyctor. She meets God. Then she meets God's daughter.

This was written for the @tlt-holiday-exchange two years ago — (I'm tagging the account because GUESS WHAT? singups are currently ongoing! go sign up!) and I had a wealth of prompts to choose from. Newly minted Lyctor Harrow & Raised by John Gideon was the one I went with.

I think a lot about how a Gideon raised by John would be like, and my strongest headcanon is that John would be like... there but not really. Gideon was raised on the day-to-day by the crew of the Erebos who treat her like she's necromantic Jesus. (I think John actually kept a pretty close eye on her but he wants to be the cool dad! He can't be the cool dad if he disciplines her! Anyway. It's a mess.) Point is! NecroJesus Gideon is THE ONLY person who's happy to see teenager Lyctors. Finally somebody she can hang out with for real! She's the only person having fun on that whole ship.

On the other hand: a Harrow who grew up without Gideon. She was THE only girl on the Ninth House, for real. She's even more dutiful than canon Harrow; she never opened the Tomb; her parents are still around. I think she's possibly more of a soppy wet mess than canon Harrow, and on top of that she just had to kill Ortus. She does't have a fragment of a dead planet in her head but she's absolutely going unhinged with the new sensorial abilities of a baby Lyctor. Everything SUCKS for her. And in the middle of this she sees this swagger teenager who's just like, "Hello I'm God's specialest little girl but he's kind of lame isn't he?" and she's about to develop the universe's biggest crush and she doesn't know it yet.

Fic title was from Forever Young by Alphaville, which is about, uhm, militarism! Cold War era euro synth-pop. There's a bit of trivia here that is the reason why I picked this line as the title and I'll never get a chance to tell anyone if not for this meme. The third verse was originally "Can you imagine how we won the war? / Little fascist lady she loves you so". The record label made the band change it into "Can you imagine when this race is won / Turn our golden faces into the sun". I thought this useless trivia really fit the vibe of the whole AU, and it amuses me greatly even though I'm the only person who got it. UNTIL NOW. MWAH.

All in all, I think this fic pretty cute despite all the Horrors just beneath the surface, and I think probably one of my softest fics in this fandom. Thank you for giving me a chance to revisit it <3

[fanfic writers director’s cut meme!]

[henryrodhamkissinger]

SOME ADORNO SHIT 😱😱😱

Happy Feodor Friday!

Theodor W. Adorno, praise be his name, quoted in Bürger 🍔, Theory of the Avant-Garde:

Adorno here saying that surrealism is artificial. No dip sure lock! Nah it’s like this. Adorno is a vehement evangelist for the avant garde in the arts; but for Adorno, the avant garde still has to express what is true: in fact, this is why Adorno advocates for the avant garde. For Adorno, the world is one of ‘objective unfreedom’ — more particularly, the crushing and fascistic sameness and fungibility of all things as they must bend to the iron law of exchange value. You might then think that Adorno would hold that only art works which somehow convey or portray that objective unfreedom are ‘true’ in his sense. Yes and no: for if that were only the case, then Adorno would have no problem with pictorial painting that portrays quotidian tyranny and subjugation, or, in music which was his specialty, any schmaltzy gothic or warlike triumphalist music would pass muster. No, for Adorno, somewhat paradoxically and perhaps simply nonsensically on his part, an autonomous art work is itself something of liberation.

An atonal serialist piece of music (Schoenberg, etc) or an expressionist painting (Kandinsky) or avant garde work of literature (Joyce) — these things, for Adorno, mark truth in the sense precisely that they subvert the world of exchange, that they refuse harmony and embrace dissonance and ‘laceration.’ Because what the ‘culture industry’ sells is escape, escape into a comforting and thought terminating sameness, the comfort of representation and repetition. That which is lacerated, dissonant, atonal etc reflects what is wholly ‘true’ in being itself as against being a facsimile of the world sold back to us. This is closely related to Adorno’s critique of Enlightenment modernity’s replacement of the qualitative with the quantitative. From the magisterial essay The Concept of Enlightenment (with M. Horkheimer):

Do you get it? I’ll translate, I’m used to this guy. The illusion of magic he refers to here is the socially inscribed primitive process of endowing some particular thing, like one single tree, with its own essence and quality, or mana. As this vanishes with enlightenment modernity, quantitative repetition reigns: a tree is only a specimen of the scientific object called ‘trees’ (yeah they’re just called trees dude, no Latin.) But note the highlighted section here: very importantly, he emphasizes how this notion of the ‘return of the same’ is already implicit in myth (or in totemic society.) Adorno doesn’t wish, then, to ‘return’ to the animism and ‘essentialism’ (in the sense of ‘an essence’) that came with primitive myth.

So the standard for truthful art can’t be that the work of art answer only to its own qualitative internal logic. Rather, it is ‘mediated,’ a fancy dialectics term that essentially means that the thing in question does not simply stand on its own unmolested by anything—it is always necessarily mediated by social conditions. I think the key to this puzzle is this: an art work cannot help but be mediated. Once a painting hangs in a gallery or a song plays at a concert, it is no longer answering only to itself, rather, it, as a work of art, is changed by the interaction it has with what is not-it, by what is outside of it and helping thereby to constitute it as such. The question then becomes, of course, by what is an art work mediated? By consumer society? So you can see perhaps now how it comes around: an art work which pushes towards subversive form and content, it is thereby far less likely to be effaced by the mediation of Capital or of ‘mass culture.’ Safeguarding against the latter is no easy task (take it from me, I am swamped in interview requests, book deals, and big music label contract offers!) That’s why Adorno is such a snobby bitch with the rigorous twelve-tone atonal music stuff and all that. It resists being…listenable…imagine if Gerwig pitched the Barbie movie where Barbie is an electrical wire hanging out of the dirt and all that happens is that an eyeless medieval police officer shouts “BARB!” into a megaphone. You know

So let’s get to the surrealism thing in brief, from the Peter Bürger 🍔 citation up top. There are radically different modes of surrealism that I believe pass muster varyingly with Adorno’s aesthetico-political concerns. And I’m gonna illustrate that with some pictures.

In my head canon I very reductively sometimes split early 20th century surrealist paintings into the Mexican and the European schools. Just as a shorthand. The two paintings below come from the former school, the first (left) by Max Ernst, who was a part of the Mexican ‘scene’ with his wife Leonora Carrington, Frida Kahlo, and the painter of the second of the ‘Mexican’ pieces here, Remedios Varo.

Now I love this shit, of course, but it’s easy to see why Adorno would not be as enthused about the radical potential in this (very broad) style (that I’m simplifying for brevity and effect.) Ernst portrays two giant beasts, a multiple-eyed chicken-like thing and a frighteningly shrouded Beast Witch; in Varo’s, a solemn sorceress mixes a potion that fuels the rotation of parchment upon which dead faced women servants write incantations, all in a tower looming atop a hilltop village that appears to be waning into the abyss. There’s obviously an element of fantasy, of imagined dream-magic and atavism that one might suspect would fall too easily into the ‘escapist’ sort of category for Adorno.

This next set, the ‘Europeans,’ is two paintings by the classic era surrealist Kay Sage, and the contemporary artist Claire Trotignon (one of my very favorite contemporary visual artists):

Kay Sage, drawing upon de Chirico before her, as well as her husband Yves Tanguy, paints these haunted, uncanny landscapes without determinate objects. The forms and contours of the modern, enlightened built world, stripped of their signification, stripped violently and denuded of their ostensible promise to be a site of human freedom. Trotignon’s pieces simultaneously erect and dismantle structures of ambiguity, emptiness and dissonance — similarly to Sage’s. They harrowingly and somewhat beautifully express Adorno’s “negative” dialectic — wherein, again, “a consciousness of denial” is at issue in the mediate artist-viewer co-constitution. They resist being iterations of something by resisting being something, apart from that lost or negated sense of rational sensibility that recedes into the abyss in capitalist modernity.

[jeniffercheck]

i am begging for a oneshot (or more) that touches on the shivlina silly mirror thing 👁️👁️ give me all the whump pls!!

thank u sm for the prompt! i had a leftover argument set during kill list that was very fun to play around with, i've placed it in the Sepsis universe, but parts 1 and 2 are not required readings. follows all canon up to 4x05, including tomshiv being on-again/off-again. silly mirror (and more) included<3

read here or on ao3

words: 3.4k

“What were you and Tom talking about last night?”

Shiv’s hovering over her suitcase in her slate and granite pseudo-cabin, Karolina sitting on the couch in the corner of the room. It’s late now, the Norwegian forest outside slowly dimming as the night draws near. They’re flying back to the States in the morning, and they’ll accept the deal from Matsson and get rid of the cruise lines and the fascists and Shiv is going to be the fucking American CEO and they can finally just put Dad to rest and all this other bullshit with him. It’s simple.

At least, it should be. Because what fucking business does Karolina have hanging around Tom all weekend anyway?

“Me and Tom?” Karolina asks. She doesn’t look up from the laptop in front of her, her furious typing barely faltering as she speaks.

“At the party,” Shiv says. “You were standing next to each other for an awfully long time.”

The typing finally slows, and Shiv looks at her, unreadable per usual.

“Oh,” Karolina says. “Nothing much. Just, making fun of Swedish dance music. And—I mean then, Tom tried to lecture me on why Swedish House Mafia is actually one of the greater electronic music artists of this generation, which, sure I guess, but I don’t think he even understood which generation he was talking about—”

“Karolina, this is serious.”

“I’m being serious, Shiv,” Karolina says, eyes focused back on the laptop. “I don’t ever want to hear about Swedish House Mafia again.”

The typing picks up and Shiv turns back to her suitcase, rearranging the contents for the fifth time. It shouldn’t make her so upset, but it does. Much like a crossed line or a broken boundary, it’s out of her control. Her pull on Tom is getting looser every day, she can feel as much, and her pull with her bothers is getting looser every day, and Matsson sends fucking blood bricks to his ex-girlfriend, so really, her entire livelihood is hanging in the balance by a group of men all held together with a bunch of loose threads and screws, and she’s fucking asking Karolina the simplest question in the world, and the only answer she can give Shiv is Swedish House Mafia.

Shiv turns around.

“So, if I called Tom right now and asked him what you talked about last night, he’d just say Swedish dance music?”

Karolina looks at her then, calculating eyes not leaving Shiv as she closes her laptop. She’s weighing the pros and cons, thinking through the risks and consequences of telling Shiv the truth, and Shiv’s had it. If she has to force Karolina’s hand, then so be it.

“Forget it,” Shiv says. “I’m calling.”

“Shiv—” Karolina says, standing up. “Hold on.”

“Remember something else?” She waits for Karolina to speak, feigning patience they both know she doesn’t have, and it doesn’t take Karolina long to speak up.

“We got into an argument,” Karolina admits.

“About?”

Karolina crosses her arms and looks away.

“You,” she mumbles.

Perfect. That’s perfect.

“Anything specific, or just which pair of pants you think my ass looks better in?” Shiv asks, feeling satisfied as Karolina rolls her eyes. Shiv’s getting that answer.

“He asked why we’ve been spending so much time together,” Karolina says, which expeditiously turns Shiv’s minor jealousy into major fury, because this was not on her agenda for the trip.

“And what the fuck did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Karolina says. “I—I just—”

“You just what?”

“I just—fuck—I threatened him,” Karolina says. “Okay? I threatened him.”

“Oh, you threatened him,” Shiv says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Would you like to share what you threatened him with, Karolina?”

“No,” Karolina says. “I don’t.”

Karolina has her world-renowned poker face on, and Shiv can only imagine what it is that Karolina used against him. She probably has a war supply of paper trails against every person in the company, let alone Tom. And it’s not that Shiv wants to protect him, but Karolina’s a different force when it comes to Shiv, and she isn’t sure that Tom would ever stand a fighting chance against Karolina.

“You know, I don’t need you fighting battles for me,” Shiv says. “I’m perfectly capable of fighting them on my own.”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s still your husband and not your ex-husband,” Karolina says.

So, Karolina’s mad. Fine. Shiv can be mad too.

“I’ll divorce him when I want to divorce him,” Shiv says.

“Because that’s what you said the last time, right?”

It’s fair. Shiv came crawling back, divorce papers dangling like a bird in her teeth and Karolina believed her. Wanted her. Shiv believed it too, she did, and then Tom took it back. He gave her another chance, and she’d made a commitment, right?

“I didn’t say anything,” Shiv says. “I said we were separating, that’s not a fucking divorce.”

“Seriously?” Karolina says. “That’s how we’re doing this? Fucking semantics?”

“If you have a problem with my relationship with Tom, then fucking say it to me,” Shiv says. “I don’t need you running around and screwing shit up.”

“I’m screwing shit up?” Karolina asks. “He’s fucking you, Shiv. He’s fucking you right to the finish line, like he always has been, but I’m the one who’s screwing shit up.”

“Yeah, Karolina,” Shiv says, crossing her arms. “You are.”

Karolina laughs hollowly and she picks up her laptop as if she’s ready to make her exit.

“Sorry for trying to defend you, Shiv,” she says, walking away from the couch. “I won’t fucking do it again.”

“It’s not your place,” Shiv says, and Karolina freezes, expression now angered.

“Please, Shiv, explain to me what my place is.”

Shiv feeds into the anger as well, and somewhere in the back of her mind she begs herself to stop, to just let it go and sleep it off and remember that Karolina cares about her, that Karolina wants what’s best for her, that finally having someone irrevocably in her corner doesn’t mean that she has to immediately try and push them out, but Shiv’s never been adept at accepting care. Not without mutually assured destruction.

“To just shut the fuck up and let me handle my shit, Karolina,” Shiv says.

“One foot out Tom’s door and one foot in mine,” Karolina says. “You’re really handling it, huh?”

“This is ridiculous,” Shiv mutters. “Don’t you—fucking have a job to be begging for right now?”

“If it’s working under you?” Karolina asks, stepping forward. “Fuck no.”

Shiv feels the words like the wind biting at her ankles; the tantalizing chill still finding its way to sink into her skin despite it being something she’d come dressed prepared for. The silence is thick, Karolina’s heavy breath waiting for Shiv to bite back.

“Did you forget my dad just died, or are you still getting off on all the crisis management?”

“That’s not funny, Shiv.”

“No?” Shiv asks. “So, just to be clear—you did, or you didn’t start writing the press release on his death before they’d even gotten the defibrillators out? I mean, fuck—you’ve probably had it written for months, haven’t you? What, since the stroke? Just biding your time until you could swoop in and play PR doctor?”

“What the hell is your problem?” Karolina asks, her hands now gripping the laptop tightly. “I’m sorry your father owned a Fortune 500, Shiv. I’ll make sure to let him know we need time to stabilize the stock market first the next fucking time he—”

Karolina cuts herself off and Shiv swoops forward with a taunting gaze.

“What, croaks?” Shiv asks. “You’d love to do it all again, huh? You fucking love it. Exploiting death, it’s what you’re good at, right?”

“Fuck you,” Karolina says, her eyes filling with tears. Shiv can’t stop it when the sudden display of emotion sets her off.

“Jesus, tears?” she scoffs. “We should get a mirror in here for how fucking stupid you look.”

She doesn’t realize what she’s said until after it’s come out, the words leaving a horrible after-taste in her mouth. Karolina scoffs so quietly Shiv is almost certain she’d made it up, not hearing much between the pounding of her heart filling her ears.

“What?” Karolina asks, her small voice laced with disappointment and disbelief, and if Shiv thought the hole in her heart couldn’t get any bigger, well, she was wrong.

Shiv opens her mouth to speak, but there’s nothing for her to say.

Karolina takes a tentative step forward, arms still crossed and eyes still wet, and she speaks, clearly shaken.

“I’m sorry that I interfered with Tom, and I’m sorry that I’m in a position where I have to treat your father’s death like it’s just business, truly, Siobhan, I am, but—” Karolina pauses, her words hanging, and Shiv’s almost grateful when she doesn’t complete the thought. She heads for the door, opening it slightly before stopping briefly, “I’m going to go look stupid in my own fucking room.”

—

Shiv sits long past the sun-setting and the last-night festivities going quiet and the other cabin’s lights going off one by one, replaying the argument in her head. She pokes and prods at it, wondering at which point it went sour, whether it had been the whole time. Karolina started it. She brought up the divorce and she baited Shiv. It was her.

Yet somehow, Shiv still feels like she’s done something irreparable.

When she can’t take it anymore, she braves the woods with just her phone flashlight and the skin of her teeth, and she goes to Karolina’s room. If Shiv were counting, she’d note that it only took Karolina twenty seconds to open the door, and she’s definitely been way less mad at Shiv and taken way longer.

“Hey,” Shiv says.

“Hey,” Karolina repeats, with no hint of her current mental state.

They stare silently for a second until Shiv hears a bristling in trees, and she remembers she’s outside in the wilderness.

“Uh, you wanna let me in before Norwegian Jason fucking hops out of the bushes?”

Karolina rolls her eyes but opens the door wider, allowing Shiv entry. Shiv immediately shivers, in disbelief at how cold it is in her suite.

“You know we’re not in charge of expensing utilities, right?” Shiv says. “You can turn the heat up without getting fired.”

“You mean I won’t have to beg for my job?” Karolina asks.

Shiv fucked up. She knows she did. She can see it in the tensing of Karolina’s shoulders, hear it in the curtness of her words. It’s not unfamiliar territory though, and that’s the only thing keeping her going. She’s done this before. She can grovel.

“You’re not going to lose your job, Karolina.”

“Good, good,” Karolina says. “Did Matsson tell you he has a death he needs you to exploit? I’ve been told I’m good at that.”

Shiv looks down in embarrassment.

“That was…” she trails off, biting her tongue. What else can she say? It always comes to this. Things are good until they’re not. Shiv is happy until she’s not. She treats people right until she doesn’t.

“Low, Shiv,” Karolina says. “Even for you.”

“Yeah,” Shiv says. “Digging into old wounds—whatever. Not cool, I know.”

The silence around them is suffocating. Shiv wishes there were some sort of card she could present, some pharmacy junk-drawer filler that says, “Sorry for being a cunt. Will do it again!” and maybe another one that says, “My dad just died and all I got you was this card!” and then she wouldn’t have to explain it, she’d just be able to give Karolina something concrete, something that explains she doesn’t know how to be a person right now and please don’t hold that against her.

But Karolina gives her the chance to try.

“Can you—can you just tell me what happened?” Karolina asks.

“What happened is my dad just died and Matsson is fucking insane, and you, you just—” Shiv has to turn away. She doesn’t want to rile herself up again, doesn’t want to resort to lashing out.

“What, Shiv?” Karolina asks. “I dislike how Tom treats you? I want you to be happy?”

“You’re meddling, Karolina,” Shiv says, turning back around.

“Shiv, you included me,” Karolina says. “You approached me, and you said you were getting a divorce and you told me it could all work out. I’m sorry if I crossed a line, but some of those lines belong to me now.”

“Tom is not—”

“Including Tom,” she says. “The second you invited me back into your life, that included Tom.”

Shiv can’t argue with that. She made Karolina a liability, she told Karolina that Tom wouldn’t be around for much longer, and she told Karolina that she wanted her.

“Okay,” Shiv says. “It’s just—this deal and the fucking funeral, it’s—it’s a lot, Karolina, alright? And a fucking, property war over me is not helping. It’s not.”

Karolina’s facade cracks just a little, her eyes softening and frown deepening.

‘You’re right, Shiv, I’m sorry,” she says. “But Tom’s just—he’s a fucking asshole, and I can’t just stand there and watch him gloat while the rest of our jobs are on the chopping block, I can’t.”

“You’re not going to be on the kill list,” Shiv says. She made sure of that.

“You don’t know that, Shiv—”

“I said, you’re not going to be on the fucking list,” Shiv repeats, voice hoarse yet strong all the same.

Karolina freezes at the interruption. She huffs, something like a challenge in her eyes and Shiv narrows hers in response.

“You’re not on the list,” Shiv repeats again, softer. “So, whatever superiority Tom thinks he has over you right now, he doesn’t. Including me.”

Karolina stares at Shiv, a host of emotions swimming in her eyes, but the one that sticks is a quiet despondence that makes Shiv regret ever having scolded Karolina at all.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Karolina says, turning away.

She sits down on the bed, avoiding Shiv’s gaze, the tell-tale sign of her tears returning when she brings a taught sleeve to the corner of her eye. A pang of guilt rolls through Shiv’s gut at the words she said earlier. It’s a disgusting little feat, learning how to weaponize the very things that were once used against you. Matsson had said it himself not even twenty-four hours earlier.

Like your dad.

Shiv sits down next to Karolina, not waiting for an invitation, and she mulls in the silence, unsure of what she could say to fix this. If what she could say would even be enough. That she doesn’t want everything she touches to be shrouded in venomous generational warfare. That this isn’t fun for her.

Shiv stares out the window ahead of them, barely able to make out the trees in the darkness. If Shiv Roy falls in a forest, does she make a sound? Or does she let herself go quietly, without a fight? It’s been so long since her voice actually mattered, she’s forgotten that it still affects people. People she cares about.

“If I apologize, will it even mean anything?” she asks.

“It always means something,” Karolina says. “Every time.”

Every time should feel like a dig, but it doesn’t. It’s comforting in some fucked up way, that admits the struggle and the chaos and cruelty, Karolina hears her. That she listens, and fights for Shiv’s honor even when Shiv doesn’t want her to. That she cares, too.

“Everything is so fucked right now,” Shiv says. “I can’t be the person you need me to be.”

Karolina’s eyes turn sad suddenly.

“I don’t need you to be anything,” Karolina says. “I’m not trying to hold you to some impossible standard, Shiv, I—I just want you to be honest with me every once in a while.”

“Honesty,” Shiv laughs, though it quickly settles, and she can’t stop her eyes from pooling with tears and her throat from constricting tightly. Karolina squeezes Shiv’s hand, always her lifeline when nobody else seems to be there. Shiv looks away, voice taught. “I can’t lose Tom right now. Not both of them.”

Karolina sighs, the sound smooth yet resolved. It hurts, thinking Shiv’s caused endless disappointment inside this woman, but she reminds herself that there has to be something good between them, for disappointment to exist at all.

“Okay,” Karolina says.

“If this changes things—”

“Shiv,” Karolina interrupts. “It’s not me or him, okay? You’re not going to chase me off that easily.”

“What if me and Tom—you know, what if we never end?”

“I don’t know,” Karolina says. “But for right now, I know that I still want you, that hasn’t changed.”

Shiv nods, running out of worries to throw out in the air. It’s fucking pathetic, but everything is pathetic right now. She’s almost content to wallow, just this once, until Karolina steers the conversation in a direction Shiv was hoping they could just both forget about, a skeleton of a conversation she hoped they’d shove under the bed and never speak about again.

“Shiv—what you said—about getting a mirror—”

It was a nasty thing to say at all, but especially to Karolina. Karolina, who trusts Shiv. Who’s shown Shiv vulnerability, and who’s trusted Shiv with that vulnerability. She’s disgusted with herself for having abused that privilege.

“It was cruel and fucked up,” Shiv says. “You’re allowed to cry, of course you are.”

“I know I’m allowed to cry, Shiv,” Karolina says. “Do you know that you’re allowed to cry?”

Shiv’s tears pool at the question, and even still, she can feel herself holding back. It’s a reaction she can’t control, holding it all back. Some days it’s like the only emotion she has is the absence of it; like the only thing she can do is swallow herself whole, scale down her tears and turn them into something more useful like anger or spite. She learned early on that if they see her cry, they’ll know. They’ll know just how fucking stupid she is.

She clears her throat, and Karolina shifts closer to her, wrapping an arm around Shiv’s waist.

“When we were younger, and we were upset, Dad—he would take us in front of this mirror and he would make us look at ourselves as we cried,” Shiv says. “He, uh, called it the Silly Mirror.”

Karolina says nothing, but Shiv doesn’t know what she would expect her to say, anyway. The context only adds an extra heaviness to the statement, and it’s a hard pill to swallow that she’d said it at all. It’s one thing to use her dad’s words against herself, her brothers even, but to use them against Karolina? It’s a vitriol Shiv had hoped wasn’t in her. Karolina called her rotten once, and Shiv considers that it could still be true. She’s lived in this body for too long now, of course, it would’ve spoiled somewhere along the way. It’s possible she’d been rotten from conception, that she spent too long in her mom’s belly and ruined her chances before she even knew what self-sabotage was. The evidence is there; the last born before Caroline ran. It was Shiv. Rotten Shiv.

Two built a company. Three a crowd.

“Shiv—” Karolina starts, but Shiv doesn’t want to hear it. Not yet.

“I thought it was my mom,” Shiv continues. “The mirror—I thought it was her. And when Dad died—I mean, when Ken told me, I thought it was her, too. I knew it wasn’t, but I just—I hoped it was, you know?”

Karolina nods, her hand now rubbing sympathetically across Shiv’s back.

“He has to be what I remember, because if I’m wrong about him, then who else am I wrong about?”

If she cries for a monster, is she a monster too?

“You’re not him,” Karolina says. “A result, maybe, or—or a product, but you’re not him.”

A product sounds much too clinical a word for what’s supposed to be daughter, but it’s a nice thought, that it’s nurture over nature and she’s not inherently evil for acting the only way she knows how.

“I don’t deserve you,” Shiv says.

Karolina just sighs and rests her head on Shiv’s shoulders, and it feels something like a truce. Shiv wraps her own arm around Karolina’s waist, and knows this connection is something she often takes for granted. Karolina links their free hands together in response.

“I wish you could see that you do.”

[cobraonthecob]

Charles isn't linked to Italian right wing parties. Once a right wing politician claimed him and Ferrari as symbols of true "Italianess" (fascist rethoric) and he started liking tweets left and right about not being and not wanting to be associated with that man and that party.

Also in Monza 2023 when the fascist Italian prime minister was at the gp in the Ferrari box, Charles suddenly disappeared and returned only when she was gone. But when in 2022 the Italian President of the Republic Sergio Mattarella (one of the most important constitutional experts in Italy and the only person with dignity in the Italian positions of power) was in the Ferrari box Charles was there and they talked a lot.

He also used to follow pro-Palestine accounts before the war on October 7th, but Ferrari imposed on him to be neutral about everything. Also the hanging out with Noah Snapps was way before he started acting like a crazy zionist. The fact that these things happened is a shame, but that doesn't make him a zionist.

But Charles doesn't have a liking for right win parties in Italy, this is just not correct.

damn, charles doing something right for once lol (wrt to trying to distance himself from the right wing italian parties and also not sticking around to talk to italy's prime minister). not an attack to you, but i'm having a hard time finding who even said that unless it's like. a deleted tweet, but if someone's got screenshots or a news article about it, i'm all ears

also, lol @ being monegasque and someone trying to claim him as italian. i'm wheezing way too damn hard. monaco watch your back (or should i say harbor?), italy might try to add you to the country

i don't think charles is a zionist or pro-palestinian (i definitely remember him following either eye on palestine or some other related accounts, and then he suddenly unfollowed them), but he hasn't said anything about wanting to distance himself from noah at the very least, so i'll just put the 'silenced by ferrari and fia, his views could go either way'. for me, it's got to be all or nothing, and right now, a white man with a huge following is not passing the litmus test of doing the bare minimum (not be zionist)

what also tickles my brain though is that he has a massive following and a big chunk of the fandom likes charles in some way, so why not use his influence? lewis expressed support for palestine, and should not be the only f1 driver to do so (the al-qubaisi sisters have put in their stories support for palestine). and it's not like charles would be shown the door; the tifosi love him and would probably raze the ferrari factory to the ground if ferrari threw him out for that, and let's pretend that the tifosi don't exist - why would ferrari throw out someone who can challenge for WDC? why would ferrari throw someone who lives and breathes ferrari, who stays with this clown circus of a team despite all the shit he goes through, just to fulfill a childhood dream?

anyways, there's a lot of nuance to be held here that i'm probably not hitting and i should really be going to bed, but thank you very much (genuine) for bringing new info to the table. charles is off the hook for now in my book lol, but he'll just be a driver that's in my 'oh nice. he's there. he scores points when there isn't a mechanical issue'

also we really should not be allowing politicians at f1 races, cota was something lol (in that i yelled at me tv for daring to show me abbott. i did not consent to seeing that on a lovely sunday afternoon). just bring the fia's governing body or some celebrity, the politicians can watch at home like the majority of us.

[woodsfae]

B5 s03e05 Voices of Authority table of contents • previous episode

Zack Allen the fascist can't get comfortable in his jackbooted thug jacket. Poor fellow. I hope he's even more uncomfrotable till he stops being such an extra fascist. 

Zack Allen heard the mysterious "Code 7-R" and he's on the fascist scent of a mystery! 

Delenn thinks that the Ancients may all be hanging out beyond the Galactic Rim, or sleeping beneath their ancient cities, or are out walking among the stars on errands incomprehensible to lower life forms. Just doin' Ancients things.

Oh! @ladymegana's boytoy is here. Marcus! They're embarking on amission to try to make contact with a higher power. And Draal is coming! Caroline, Sinclair's old surveyor girlfriend (who I hope is living happily off her many, many credits) got rescued from an Ancient by G'Kar personally! I was so suspicious of him then. Simpler times! 

Draal Planet, who is definitely an ancient one of sorts, checked hims planet computers and discovered something which gives him the screaming willies, and he wants them to come look at it. LOL.

Zack Allen is gonna face and probably fail some more ethical dilemnas I suppose, since he's popped up twice this episode already.

G'Kar! And Delenn is being so dismissive and cold! In public. Hmm. Delenn has talked derisively about the cold and unwelcoming nature of Narns before, but it's disappointing seeing G'Kar cut out so much when his people are the only ones who have most recently successfully fought the Shadows. They're such a good resource! And they need alliances! WHy cut them out so strictly?? Sheridan, Delenn, and the Rangers should be trying to ally with them. 

Sheridan has been assigned a "political officer," who is billing herself basically as a secondary commander of B5. Oop, and she's callling on Mr Allen's Nightwatch thingamajig. Of course he heads in for his lil debrief. 

Draal is kinda all over the place. Genial, red-mood-lighting and ominous, saying things like "gives me the willies," from time to time, hates surprises but thinks Ivanova is funny... 

uh-oh. There are no problems on Earth. No homeless, except for people who refuse to work the jobs offered to them to be housed. No poor, except for ditto the previous exception. No crime, except for the mentally unstable, but they're being sorted out of the general population in childhood nowadays... well now I'm much more trepidatious. 

Brave of Susan to let herself be plugged into the whole damn planet! Can't he print it out? Or put it on a usb crystal or whatever? Seems a bit extreme. 

Claudia Christian is face acting for her extreme close-up for all she's worth! 

The CGI has technically improved a lot, but it's still so itself. I love it.

Ancients will be back on Sigma 957 "soon!" But Susan isn't alone! The Shadows got her! Now I"m even more trepidatious! Seriously Draal, slap that shit on an external hard drive next time. 

It sure would be handy if this vision was recorded. Oh! It was! Susan's secret telepathy comes in handy in scrying the past, and Draal Planet does to HD recordings of mental trips across the cosmos! 

Is it like. Secure to talk about top secret stuff on the other side of two tiny sliding doors with a very nosy literal propagandist/spy from Earth on the other side? 

Hope Delenn doesn't mind him making out with other women for the sake of the mission. 

Yeah, everyone stop lying to G'Kar and fobbing him off and forcing him to lurk around the edges to find out what's important. Good point G'Kar! Them not being able to think of anything G'Kar can help with is a failure of imagination. And so fucking condescending. 

It is now "innapropriate" for Earth Force staff to criticize Earth politics, and they'll be expected to cut off family and friends who don't fall in line. And the Night Watch are being instructed to subvert actual policy in favor of the new extra fashy policies. Well this will be fun! The bullshit is so heavy. Earth must be kept safe and ideologically pure, because they've been betrayed "on every level." 

An interesting alien encounter! Susan Ivanova is an unflappable beast. I hope the Minbari on board are forming a new religious cult around her. 

lololol. Susan is actually the best. Got them to speak English to her, too. 

Realy neat ship design. 

Sheridan leaked the video of the VP Clark plotting Pres Santiago's assassination! Definitely the right call, but for some reason I expected them to sit on it awhile. 

Gardibaldi is thankfully not as much of a fascist as he could be, even though he's a cop. But he isn't a collaborator. 

Ugh Zack fucking spilling deets left and right. Just handed over their secret meeting code like that. Someone needs to write "Don't be a collaborator" on a newspaper, roll it up, then smack him and Londo with it till they get the hint.

JMS loves his sly ship name allusions. This loyal cog of the progaganda machine is leaving on a ship named for a god of (among other things) lies. And you can't lie without knowing the truth. 

G'Kar: "Read the book of G'Quan, we'll talk after." Garibaldi: "I don't read Narn," G'Kar: "Learn!" 

No one on the show who isn't Narnuan speaks Narn. Garibaldi would certainly endear himself to me a little if he did learn!

Well, G'Kar continues to be The Best (and Susan Ivanova continues to also be The Best).

Again, nice to have some Big Plot movement! They do a good job advancing it a tiny bit here and there, then yanking a bunch of strings at once so a ton of past details suddenly align into Even More Big Plot Movement. It gets me! I'm sure there's threads I'm missing, but it's very fun pieces threads together. Even when I can't get it before the show reveals their hand, I still feel like it's outsmarted me fairly, lol.

My special little guy Alfred Bester is back!

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

I think the thing about shipping discourse that drives me the most up the wall is the basic assumption that if your stance is anywhere outside of reading/watching fiction about bad thing is bad then you must enjoy a certain type of content. Buddy no. There are so very many ships that I personally think are very gross and unpleasant and don’t want to read or see anything about. So I block those tags. The only difference in our experience of fandom here is that I don’t think someone who makes or partakes in art i find disgusting should be drawn and quartered. I will just simply not appreciate their art.

And that also does not mean there isn’t room for nuanced discussion and criticism about how fandoms engage in fan creation. I think it is valuable to have discussions about the reasons why fandoms favor certain ships over others, or characterize certain characters particularly in ways that lead to common use of racist, misogynistic, and homophobic tropes. But critique does not mean we tell the people who made the media that we think is bad to kill themselves. Harassment isn’t okay. Calling for censorship of art isn’t okay. Filing fake claims with the fbi about csem on ao3 isn’t okay.

Engaging in the toxic individualist response to hang an individual for systemic problems is not praxis. You are not building solidarity between oppressed classes, you are engaging in the capitalist social directive to tear down everyone around you so you can momentarily stand on top of the molehill.

It makes me so sad to see so many people list things like being against gender essentialist pseudo feminism and white supremacy and even capitalism while in the same breath reinforcing a puritanical fundamentalist christofascist idea of morality and sexual purity. If you’re against the white nationalists trying to take over every government right now perhaps stop doing their work for them and calling all the dirty degenerates who don’t conform to rigid sexual expressions subhuman. All queerness is kink to fascists.

[tobiasdrake]

So, no reason to stick around here when all the fascists have to throw at us are angry megaphone ranting. Let's--

Oh, what fresh hell is this!? That one of ours or one of theirs?

Ah, a Winterfresh hell. Gotcha.

This is fine. Halara can hang both of these jackasses from the scaffolding by their underwear and then we can hop in our sub and leave. Whoever his umbrella-holder is, she can make her own call if she wants to join them or not.

She looks like she could go either way. Similarly high-ranking executive or punch-clock assistant. Or a devotedly loyal punch-clock assistant who mistakenly believes she'll be rewarded for brown-nosing the rich because libertarianism is a thing people believe in for some reason.

She's definitely joining them on the scaffolding.

So Seth's been shielding the Nail Man because he's embezzling church donations and didn't want to lose his income source.

What an utterly mundane and, honestly, fairly satisfying explanation. With the slight twist that he didn't do it.

They're scapegoating Seth to avoid having this blow back on Yomi. Y'know, after Halara runs him up the scaffolding, we bail, and then leak the story to the press.

At least Halara and I know the truth of--

...I guess I'll go fuck myself, then.

Honestly, this is probably for the best. Avoids any awkward questions about that whole "We fucking killed two people!" thing. Why did the Priest and Worshipper suddenly drop dead? Why did the Priest abruptly spring back to life, confess to being the Nail Man, and then flop over like a rag doll? Eh.

Illusions in the rain.

Oh good. So they forget all the cool labyrinth stuff but remember me giving them stink-eye for half the case. Great. Thanks.

I'm going to crawl under a rock and die now.

See you around, Halara. All things considered, you're pretty cool. When you aren't bilking people out of unreasonable sums of money like a goddamn financial predator, that is.

[myadalastdon]

DECEIVED EMOTIONS .

Kyle spencer X female reader

Part one

1.4k words

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ [𝚈/𝙽 𝙿𝙾𝚅] ࿐ྂ

"Hey can you stand here for me? I need to use the bathroom right quick." My roomate hayden told me. I nodded. I tried pulling my dress down a little. Because it was too short and tight. I hate wearing tight revealing clothes.

I normally wear baggy clothes. But my friend hayden said that you can't go to a frat party with baggy clothes on. So she gave me one of her dresses from out of her closet.

Which were slutty and short. I feel so disgusted. I don't know why we are here. She says that i need to have fun and catch a dick. I really wanna go home. Parties aren't my scene.

While standing here alone. My eyes scanned my surroundings. There were people dancing. No they were literally bumping and grinding on the dancefloor.

I shook my head. Walking through everyone. I never been to a party. Yes i'm a sophomore in college and i never been to a party. Not even in high school.

I know it's embarrassing but i just don't do parties. I looked around in awe. This is interesting. I saw a ice sculpture. It looked real nice.

I also felt eyes on me. It was a boy. He was staring at me. I didn't feel creeped out or anything. He was just staring at me like i was the only one in the room. I stared back at him.

We were staring at each other through the ice sculpture. He was cute. But definitely not my type. I smiled at him. He smiled back at me.

I walked away to find somewhere to sit down. I was tired of standing. I made my way through the crowd of people. I was so lost. So i just stood in front of the stairwell.

While standing there. The same boy that was staring at me walked up to me with a cup in his hand. Is he following me? How did be find me?

"Hey. I thought you looked thirsty." He says, handing me the cup that was in his hand. I let out a chuckle.

"Is that your superpower. You can sense hydration?" I said. He smiles at me. "One of them."

"Ah a frat boy right? I think frats are full of fascists." I said crossing my arms. The blonde hair boy let's out a laugh.

"I don't mind being reduced to a stereotype, but... i'm on a scholarship." He tells me. He was so cute. The question is why is he talking to me. There are much prettier girls around here dancing. "My mom lives down in the ninth ward. Besides, didn't you come here with a movie star?"

I laughed. "Yeah. What does that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno. I'm kyle by the way. You must me be?.."

"Y/n." I added. He had his hand out for me to shake, i shook his hand. God his hands are soft. We were talking about random stuff.

"Really? How come i never see you around here?" He asked. I shrugged my shoulders. "I just stay out the way, i guess."

"Wow." He says.

"I don't wanna talk about me anymore, okay?" I said. He was a frat boy. And i know how they are. They like to talk to you till they get into your pants. And i'm not letting that happen ever.

"You're the first hot girl. I ever met. Who doesn't want to talk about herself." Kyle says to me. "There's got to be something wrong with you."

I laugh. He does have a point. But I don't trust him. I have to remember he's a frat boy.

He covers his face. "I know. You have a boyfriend."

"No, I don't." I answered. I sighed deeply. "Kyle i like you. But it's not gonna work out. Have you seen my friend?"

He sighs. I walk away so i can find hayden. I looked everywhere for her all around this house. I walked back to where kyle was.

"Hey, I can't find her anywhere." I said letting out a breath. "What, you think she ditched you?"

I scoffed.

"I'll look around upstairs. Hang on." He says, patting my shoulder. I just stood there and waited for him. "Hey, i looked around everywhere. She isn't up there."

Hearing yelling. "Nevermind. I know where she is."

He grabs my hand. We walked through the crowd of people. And there was hayden. She was sitting on someone's lap. There was a group of people sitting on the couches.

"There she is! Y/n we we're playing truth or dare. C'mon girl." She gets up from the boy lap and grabs my arm.

"We're gonna have so much fun! I see you met kyle." She smirks. We sat down on the couch.

"These are my friends. Autumn, brittney, and heidi." Hayden introduces me to her friends. I waved at them. "Hey." I said shyly.

"Where did the boys go? We're supposed to be playing truth or dare." Autumn whined.

"Relax. They went to go grab some drinks." Heidi assured. A few minutes and the boys had came back. I met them and they seem cool.

"So who's up first?" One of the frat brothers asked. His name is tyler. He is an asshole.

"Kyle." Everyone says. He lets out a sigh. "Okay what?"

"Truth or dare." Derrick asks him. "Truth." Kyle answers. He eyes derrick for a couple of seconds.

"Is it true that you actually banged peyton last year?" He asked kyle.

"Dude no. That never happened." Kyle says, he picks up a cup that was full of beer and chugged it.

Ew.

"Okay now its y/n turn." Hayden turns to me. All eyes were now on me. I swallowed a lump of salvia.

"I'll do the honors of asking her." Heidi smirks. Something was off about her. I don't like it not one bit.

"Fine. Whatever." I muttered. "So y/n truth or dare?"

"Dare." I challenged. Everyone around me gasped. "Okay. I dare you to make out with kyle for one minute."

My eyes widened. "I'm not doing that."

"Yes you are. It's either that or go skinny dipping in the pool." She smirked with her arms crossed. I'm not skinny dipping in no cold ass pool. And I'm definitely not taking my clothes off even though it feels like I don't have any on.

"Fine i'll kiss him." I said sighing. "Okay. I'm going to set a timer on my phone for one minute. Now get to kissing."

I bit my lip nervously. "You don't have to do this." Kyle whispered in my ear.

"It's fine." I assured. I never kissed anyone before. Well i kissed someone in grade school. It was more of a peck though. And it was spin the bottle.

I grabbed him by his collar pulling him towards me. We were now facing each other.

"The timer starts now." Heidi says quickly. Kyle stared into my eyes, then smashed his lips into mine. The kiss started off slow. Our eyes were closed.

We kissed in sync. His lips glided over mine smoothly. His hands also moved down to my waist. My head tilted. We kissed slowly and his lips were soft.

I felt the sparks between the kiss. I also felt safe. His fingers tips pressed against my skin. I never felt so safe and his touch made me wanna risk it all.

My heart was beating with excitement.

Before his tongue could slide into my mouth. We were interrupted by the timer beeping.

"OKAY STOP!" Heidi yelled. She was laughing. We opened our eyes and kyle smirks at me. I blushed. My cheeks were a rosy color.

"That was nice." He smiles at me. His eyes weren't dark anymore. They were just his regular eye color. Chocolate brown.

"Yeah." I agreed. Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I bit my lip. His eyes gazed at me for a couple of seconds.

"And you're a really good kisser." Kyle complimented. He wipes my lip gloss from his lips.

"Thank you. It was my first time." I blushed. His eyes widen. "Wow."

The whole night we played truth or dare. I'm surprised nothing got too wild. It was fun. I sat next to kyle the whole time. For some reason i felt safe around him.

"Okay guys. We have to get going." Hayden said letting out a yawn. I could agree with her. "Come on y/n lets go. I wanna sleep."

I'm so glad we are roommates. While getting myself up from the couch. Kyle grabs my arm. "When will i see you again?"

"I don't know. You'll have to find me pretty boy." I tell him, then tapped his nose. He bits his lip. "Okay that's fine by me."

"See you around kyle." I said. "See you around y/n."

He let's go of my arm. And smiles at me.

With that. Hayden and i. Leave the frat house. Kyle and that kiss we shared was all i could think about.

[your-tutor-abacus]

Fikwakyet

Translated to "Fairport" in the English versions of the Sunspot Chronicles, Fikwakyet is a city that is more unique than any other in the Garden of `etekeyerrinwuf.

I explain a bit about the why of that in my own book, Ni'a. But, to recap:

When the Sunspot was built, the Founding Crew designed the shapes of the corridors, the contours of the Garden, and the placement and foundations of the cities. Then they let the Children build upon and between all of that and make the ship their own.

But Fikwakyet was a special project. Fenmere (a.k.a. Fenemere) wanted to run an experiment, and managed to get the Crew Council to approve it.

Part of the whole point of the Sunspot was to make a strict and sudden cultural break from the millennia of fascism that had been plaguing their predecessor ship, the Terra Supreme (Feruukepikape). And for most of the Sunspot's architecture and culture, everything was derived from shapes and themes found in nature, and everything that reminded the Founding Crew of the Terra Supreme was done away with.

Fenmere contended that certain aesthetic choices were not inherently fascist, and wanted to demonstrate this by having one city where certain old elements could be reintroduced, starting with rectangular foundations for its buildings (instead of the scutoid structures found everywhere else on the Sunspot).

Fenmere had other reasons for doing this, besides trying to prove this point, and those reasons are likely to be visited in the last few chapters of the Sunspot Chronicles (I'll refrain from spoilers here).

The result is that, somewhat coincidentally, due to how right angles tend to work, when we finally made contact with Earth through the Tunnel Apparatus, it was remarked upon how similar Fikwakyet is to many Earth cities.

There are some critical differences, of course. The scales of things are not the same, because we build to accommodate both the largest and the smallest of our people, as well as for many disabilities.

Also, we have nothing like industry or commerce. At least, not driven by anything remotely like profit.

@ashwin-the-artless explains this in nems post titled Cities.

But, I'd like to use this opportunity to highlight another aesthetic difference. The alignment of our windows.

This is something that can be seen in almost all Sunspot cities, except perhaps Agaricales (which is a little more chaotic than most).

There are two axes of spectacular views on the Sunspot: foreward and aft; and spin and antispinward.

To the fore and aft, you can witness the sunbirths and sundeaths, and also the moonbirths and moondeaths. It some people really value that, and build their houses to give them as much view of that axis of the Garden as possible from anywhere in their house.

Perpendicular to that, spinward and antispinward, you can see the curvature of the Garden on a clear day, and the geography of it and neighboring cities, and honestly, even though I've lived with those views for the entirety of the Sunspot's existence, I still find them utterly breathtaking.

We try to show this off with the other photos of the Sunspot we share with you. This photo, here, however, demonstrates the effect on the architecture of the houses.

It's pretty rare that you'll find any building that is not aligned with one of these axes. And those that are tend to have wrap around windows that accommodate views of as much of the Garden as possible all around.

Another difference between the Sunspot and the Earth at the time of this writing is that our windows are more durable, more insulating, and more configurable. We can change their transparent and reflective properties on command. Which means that we have very few incentives to not make a wall a window, except perhaps to give us room to hang something or to place furniture against it in an aesthetic way.

But, solid walls and ceilings are still just a tad more insulating than our windows, so some people do opt for more opaque housing.

But if you don't want the views or the light, you'll usually choose to live belowdecks anyway.