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woodsfae · 8 days

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B5 S03E19 Grey 17 Is Missing previous episode - table of contents

I'm not sure how this episode is going to go, because prior to this I have always watched B5 high (I started this saga while taking hydrocodone pain meds I was allergic to post-wisdom teeth removal) or sober (which I quickly stopped doing, because the recaps were a dry and stale recounting of the plot in a most unpleasant way), but now I can't have THC for awhile (pre-op instructions for what will hopefully be my last surgery for awhile) and so I am experimenting with liveblogging while tipsy.

So far I thimk that tipsy b5 blogging may be the era of run-on sentences. play video.

Harry Sanders says in response to the question "are you a telepath,": "sure."

I am guessing that Mr Sanders is not a telepath. But I am a huge fan of people fucking with Zack Allen. Queer icon Harry Sanders tries to flirt his way into the job. sadly, he fails.

Unnamed maintenance worker gets sucked into a maintenance tunnel with random wires trailing out of it. That probably won't be relevant later :)

Someone, I am assuming Sinclair, spoke of Delenn "with great reverence" to his Minbari friend regularly. I LOVE THAT OMG. *shipping intensifies*

Harlan Ellison consulted on this one, too?? That's so cool. My Eepectations just went up. Minbari With The Nose thinks that Delenn should take over as Ranger One. Are they going out of their way to not say his name?

Calling a gun with bullets a slugthrower is a pretty amusing thing to share with Star Wars. I once read a crossover fic where Han Solo (iirc) went on smuggling runs to B5 to pick up kyber crystals, which the B5 people have been using for mere data storage.

"I swear it's like the Centauri triangle in there - something's always going wrong."

I only support Garibaldi's casual racism because actually, everything IS always going wrong with the Centauri....but has the Bermuda Triangle myth been supplanted with a centauri space equivalent?? And what makes it a triangle in 3d space?

Stephen Franklin is looking rough. Withdrawl. Withdrawal? Sad plotline. Space AA is not my favorite plotline. Also, Mr Dr Franklin, maybe don't compain about people following you around when you haven't even left Babylon Five???? That's a cry for help if ever I saw one in metaphor. If you wanna be alone like...barter some medical attention for a ride to an abandoned planetoid.

Gray 17 is a level of b5? Cool. I thought it was going to be a person that disappeared. And it is several of them at least. But there's also thirty official grey levels but only 29 accessible. I like it.

Delenn looks extra pretty today.

Why does this Minbari know about siren songs? Convergent cultural evolution, or does this guy like Earth ancient-greek sailor myths?

It's genuinly hilarious (and apropos) for a Minbari Ranger to think it pollutes the rangers for humans to be admitted. This warrior class Minbari thinks it's heretical for Delenn-of-the-clerics to consider taking command of the Rangers, which he thinks are the rightful domain of the warrior caste.

hm. Where'd he go. That won't come up later, either.

Garibaldi is leaning into one of his strengths: investigation. He's counting the seconds the elevator takes between Grey levels. Grey like the grey council, or pure coincidence?

ALSO. no minbari has killed another minbari for a thousand years?? I find that very hard to believe. Domestic violence? manslaughter?? What kind of statistical fuckery are they employing to make that something Delenn can say without winking??

Delenn: "I want your word that you will not tell [Sheridan] about [the warrior class dick threatening to kill me]. Your. Word."

*cue Lennier hinting unsubtly about Delenn's life being in danger*

I did not expect Level 17 Grey to come up. Where is the missing number if Grey 17 is missing, it goes to Grey 30, but there's only 29 levels? This mystery is deeper than I expected it to be!

The missing floor, once Garibaldi rules-lawyers the lift into stopping there, is trashed. And it says Grey 17 in a different place than the other floors. AND there's what looks like a technical diagram for a trash can where the other floors have their designation signs. Idk what this means, but it's a data point!!

Well. I would drop kick that puppet if it talked to me on a trashed level. But Michael Garibaldi let it DART him. like a SCHMUCK. Don't let it do that. hit the follow button for more HOT TIPS FROM MICHAL. (pronounced like McCalll, not like Michael).

Lennier!!!! YES HE IS TELLING SOMEONE. But not Sheridan. Love his rules-lawyering. Super cute. My guy. Lancelot (purely platonic version).

I would kiss Lennier all over his sweet face. And he would not like it. I am sure.

Garibaldi has recovered-ish from his darting of unknown substance. FUCK THAT PUPPET. burn it with fire or smth.

Who is this council of lost persons?? Jim Henson's dream?????!

"My name is Jeremiah. Welcome to the end of the world."

YES PLEASE. This is good plot, and I like it.

Delenn is really beautiful this episode. I think the red/blue rich, saturated colors particularly flatter her. But she is always unfairly pretty and generally lickable.

Delenn's mother entered the sisters of valeria soon after Delenn was born, and she's only seen her twice. TWICE. And Delenn's father died ten years ago. She does not mention siblings. How old is Delenn? If it isn't a plot-relevant spoiler, please let me know if you know it.

Her thoughts on missing her father are both relatable and wistful. It made me thoughtful about the same topic.

Jeremiah says the reason the Minbari almost defeated the humans in the war was because the Minbari are closer to the truth than humans. AND we have learned that the people on Grey Level 17 is because they hacked the system and detached themselves from the rest of B5. Isolationists being isolationist on a tiny little level of a space station is illogical and funny and very, very human.

The Minbari offended by Delenn running the Rangers is called Neroon! That's super familiar and I think I've met him before. He says "During the war I killed fifty thousand of you....what's one more?" Well my dude. I bet you didn't kill fifty thousand humans in one-on-one combat. And I'm gonna go ahead and bet on Marcus's staff-fighting prowess over his.

GET 'IM MARCUS.

This is a well-choreographed and filmed staff fight.

Jeremiah on Grey Level 17 actually is super aligned with Delenn's philosophy on the universe. But is far more freaky about the practical side of the philosophy. tbh. I think Jeremiah did LSD one too many times.

Garibaldi isn't super serious about his threat because his choke hold lacks a fulcrum...Jeremiah could break it anytime he liked if he knew how to identify what wrestling hold he was in....signed...someone whose father wrestled in highschool and taught them from a young age to identify and break choke holds by neck-feel....

GO MARCUS GO GET NEROON.

Neroon: "Why? You must have known you could not win....so why do it?" Marcus: "For [Delenn]. [...] In Valen's name."

LANCELOT MOVE OVER, GALAHAD HAS ARRIVED

Jeremiah: "Listen. Listen. The only way out is-is to find a purity of thought. A purity of belief! That is the door! The door of the mind."

Hm. This dude is craycray. And his further speech does nothing to dispel the notion. What is screeching??

If Sinclair was Entil'Zha, wthen what was this Minbari Ranger going to designate Delenn?

Damn it, Neroon lives. Bring! Back! Galahad! fuck u neroon. You don't deserve a capitalized proper noun name.

wtf is this thing hunting on level 17 grey?? I don't recognize its silhouette.

Michael Garibaldi (paraphrased): HOW DO WE HURT THIS THING??? *looks at .38 bullets in hand*

Me, reliving my misspent youth: IF YOU GRAB THE SHELL OF THOSE .38s WITH PLIERS THEN HIT THE PRIMER WITH A BALLPEEN HAMMER U CAN SHOOT IT

(yes I did this shit for fun as a child and I am EXTREMELY LUCKY I did not have a mishap of a permanent injury variety)

hmm. Garibaldi sorta used my childhood fun trick but with a pipe to protect his fragile hands.. UNLIKE ME AND MY PLAIN PLIERS AND HAMMER

Neroon kicked Marcus's ass but Marcus is going to recover -a relief. But Neroon!! FUCK OFF.

"you are more noble than I" - Neroon (paraphrased)

THAT'S A GALAHAD MOVE. psych. Marcus got you with his ideological purity and ironic wit!!

The murderous thing on Grey level 17 was a "zarg." OK. Please, if it isn't spoilery, remind me what that is.

This episode feels a bit more disjointed than they usually are, but I liked it. And fuck Neroon!!! Get behind Delenn or shut the fuck up.

*a perfectly good episode. but also. GET BEHIND DELENN OR STFU!!

onward

#woodsfae b5 #delenn

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feminismisstillahatemovement · 9 months

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Here we go again. Another institution, brimming with self-righteous faux outrage, is trying to airbrush JK Rowling’s name out of history. This time it’s the turn of the Museum of Pop Culture (MoPOP) in Seattle, Washington, which has removed the world-famous author’s name from its Harry Potter exhibition. Last week, the museum announced that while it will continue to display memorabilia from the Harry Potter books and films, it wants no association with their supposedly problematic creator.

Explaining the decision in a 1,400-word blog, the museum’s exhibitions project manager, Chris Moore, brands Rowling a ‘cold, heartless, joy-sucking entity’. Moore, who identifies as trans and uses ‘he / them’ pronouns, takes exception to Rowling’s ongoing interest in preserving women’s hard-won rights over the ‘right of anyone who insists they are who they say they are’. Once again, Rowling’s reasonable and rational defence of women’s sex-based rights is being presented disingenuously as ‘hateful’ or ‘harmful’ towards transgender people, and therefore deserving of cancellation.

Moore even seems to think it would be better if Rowling had never existed. ‘We would love to go with the internet’s theory that these books were actually written without an author’, he writes, ‘but this certain person is a bit too vocal with her super hateful and divisive views to be ignored’.

Strikingly, Moore goes a few steps further than most of Rowling’s critics. He doesn’t just accuse her of transphobia. He also accuses the Harry Potter books of peddling ‘racial stereotypes’, promoting ‘fat shaming’ and, perhaps most heinous of all, lacking ‘LGBTQIA+ representation’. Surely to goodness there must have been a few pansexual / nonbinary students in the imaginary, magical school of Hogwarts? Shame on JKR for not giving them a voice, eh? The headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, might have been gay, but apparently that’s not enough in our world of 764 genders.

I find myself torn about this particular non-event, to be perfectly honest. On the one hand, I realise this is simply the latest in a long line of attempts to shut Rowling up. ‘I saw Goody Rowling, in the barn, consorting with the devil!’ is the tone of every such outburst. By now, these tricks have become cheap and obvious to anyone observing closely. The smears are always baseless.

On the other hand, the attempts to erase Rowling are deadly serious. Each attempted takedown inevitably leads to her receiving the vilest, cruellest abuse. Abuse which, if you’ve ever taken the time to read it, contains some of the most horrific things one human could say to or about another. Rowling is no doubt a tower of strength and resilience, having been on the receiving end of this bile for years. But it’s probably still having an effect on her, deep down.

Perhaps there is an upside to this stunt by Moore and the MoPOP, however. Removing Rowling’s name from the museum, and condemning her as ‘super hateful’, is so infantile that most right-thinking people will likely see it for the foolishness it really is. Sunlight, on occasions such as these, has a remarkable effect of highlighting the absurd and often cruel behaviour of the gender ideologues. People are getting wise to these smear tactics now that they are so regularly churned out. The problem is it is difficult to get people to speak out against them.

Sadly, most people are still too scared to speak up. This shouldn’t surprise us when the extremist factions of the trans movement use threats of rape, violence and torture to bring people into line. They doxx people’s addresses and workplaces, so the heretics can be hunted down and vilified, resulting in the loss of earnings, jobs, reputations and more. There are countless examples of this. And no doubt there will be many more to come.

Faced with this, we cannot simply stand by and shrug. We have to stand up to the smears. The truth is that Rowling has never said anything untoward about trans people. She has been critical of the behaviour of some trans fanatics. She has been vocal in her support for single-sex spaces for women and girls. And yes, she has vociferously defended herself against hourly abuse. As she damn well has a right to do. But she is not the bigot she has been made out to be.

It’s time we all speak up for what is right. It’s time to break the cycle of fear. It’s time we called out this public assault on JK Rowling – and on all the other gender-critical feminists who’ve been similarly maligned. We need to put a stop to this authoritarian movement.

----------------------------

James Dreyfus is an actor who has starred in Gimme, Gimme, Gimme, Absolutely Fabulous and The Thin Blue Line.

#jk rowling #witch hunts

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rosewaterandivy · 7 months

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Through Me Prequel - i. the hanged man

Summary: Steve may be slow on the draw, but hand to god, he's sure there's something ... off about you. Or, the three times Steve was a witness and the one time he wishes he wasn't.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, eventual Steddie x fem!reader in the series

WC: 5.2K

Warnings/Themes: cursing, criticism of religion (catholicism/xtiantiy mostly), religious themes, canon-typical violence, death, idolatry via smut, blasphemy, heretical notions, angst, occasional fluff (as a treat), Biblical & western literary canon and media references/allusions

A/N: This is the first of three prequels centering on the three main characters. If you're up on your tarot know-how, you can glean some info from the banner, etc. 👀 Special shout out to my beloved Jo (@jo-harrington) for looking this over way back when! If you haven't checked out As Above, So Below, wtf are you even doing with your life!?

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not. This (*) is a singal to check the footnote at the end!

Enjoy! 💜

Masterlist | Playlist | Currently Spinning:

"I don't care how many angels can fit on the head of a pin. It's enough to know that for some people they exist, and that they dance."

— Mary Oliver, "Angels"

Wednesday, November 9, 1983

You first meet Steve Harrington on a cold day in early November. A feast day, memorializing one basilica or another according to your latest missive— it was hard to keep track, much less whether it was one to be observed.

A shrill ring from the phone in the motel room, this side of too loud and unfortunately, it’s enough to rouse you.

“What?”

“We have some concerns regarding a small Midwestern town, Hawkins, Indiana.”

Blearily you sit up, “Yeah?”

“Just a drive-by should suffice.”

A sigh, “Got anything else for me?”

The voice paused, as if annoyed by your tone. “We’ll be in touch, as always.”

The sound of the dial tone did nothing to elevate your mood. While presently not on a mission, you bided your time by locating relics and artifacts for future use. Yesterday’s attempt turned out to be more burden than boon— not only was the pawnshop owner a shyster but a gun-for-hire. So, no relic to be had and you had to disarm the guy, what a waste.

Luckily, Hawkins was only four hours drive from Lebanon and sounded like a pretty easy day.

But no one bothered to tell you that a boy and teenage girl were missing.

Driving down main street, the town seemed fairly normal. But the gooseflesh running up your arms and legs told a different story. As did the telltale scent of bleach in the air, signaling the presence of some high-voltage electrical discharge— ozone.

Flipping on your police scanner, you were able to glean the address of a witness and potential suspect. Consulting the map on the passenger seat, you turn off the main drag and head toward the outskirts of town.

In the driveway, there are two vehicles, one black sedan and one maroon BMW. Parking in front of the house, you grab a pen and a notebook along with a badge. After checking your hair briefly in the side-view mirror, you pull on a trench coat and knot it at the waist.

Walking up the pavement, you note the police tape against the double-doors and tire treads from other vehicles. Based on the number, you’d have to guess a party of some kind was thrown the night before.

Three quick raps on the door.

“Police, open up!”

A harried, but well-kept woman opens the door. “Yes, can I help you?” She asks politely, with a slight tremor in her voice.

“Are you Mrs. Harrington?” She nods. “Very well ma’am. I’m Detective Constantine with Hawkins P.D. May I come inside?” You display your badge for her viewing.

Another voice sounds out from the house, perturbed. “Tell her to come back with a warrant.”

The woman’s eyes blow wide, hesitant to refuse her husband. Her mouth opens to explain.

You sigh, pocketing the badge and raise your voice. “Sir, considering that a girl went missing here on your property last night, I am well within my rights to search your home without a warrant.” You smile, trying your best to remain civil. “But I am more than happy to radio the Chief from my car to relay your sentiments.”

The sound of shuffling papers and a creak from an old office chair. The door opens wider, revealing a man, Mr. Harrington, bags under his eyes and tie loose around his neck.

“I assure you, that won’t be necessary,” He says with a tight-lipped smile and opens the door wider.

With a nod, you enter, notebook out and pen ready. Assessing the home, you take a few cursory notes. Walking from the foyer to the living room, through the dining room and out onto the patio you stop— a young man in a pool chair grabbing your attention.

He looks dazed, staring at the covered pool. Legs pulled to his chest and chin resting on the tops of his knees. Dressed in a teal sweatshirt, sweatpants and socks you wonder how he isn’t shivering from the cold.

In an attempt to gently alert him of your presence, you softly clear your throat. His head jerks upward quickly, panicked eyes locked on you. “It’s okay,” you say, sitting on a chair to his left. “I’m just here to ask you some questions.”

He nods slowly, eyes never leaving you. A dull buzzing rattling in his chest.

Briefly consulting your notes, you lick your lips. “It’s Steve, right?”

“Y-yeah, Steve Harrington.”

“Great!” You smile and nod. “I’m Detective Constantine. Can you tell me about the party last night?”

He nods gaze fixed on you, on the hazy glow that seems to encircle your head; he blinks and scrubs a hand down his face; the image gone. “It was just a small thing, me, Tommy Hagan, Carol Perkins, and Nancy Wheeler.”

“And the missing girl?”

“Right, Barb Holland. Nance invited her.”

“Nancy Wheeler, she’s your girlfriend?”

Another nod.

“Did you notice anything odd about Barb or anyone else last night?”

“No, not really. She didn’t, uh, seem to want to be here.” He frowns, brows furrowing, a slight tremor runs through him, from the cold or the shock, who’s to say?

“I think she cut her hand opening a beer, maybe?”

Jotting down a few more notes, you nod. “But didn’t make a call or say anything about making plans to leave?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Nance and I went inside, Barb stayed out by the pool. Didn’t hear anything from upstairs.”

Glancing up from your notes, you pause. Steve’s warmed up to you during the brief conversation, legs crossed in front of him instead of drawn to his chest. He looks tired, looks scared.

“Your room, I presume.”

He blushes at that, nods. Takes a tense breath in, inhaling the tangy scent and taste of newly forged metal - sharp and pure at the back of his throat.

“Can you point to where you last saw Barb?”

He does so, drawing your eyes to the far lip of the pool where the Harrington lot backs into the woods. There’s a tinge of ozone in the air, albeit fading, and a tang of copper. That’s to be expected from a cut on the hand, but the electrical discharge—

“There wasn’t a storm last night? Lightning or anything like that?”

Steve shakes his head, opens his mouth to say something when the sliding door opens.

“He wants a lawyer!” Mr. Harrington shouts, “Steve, I told you to request a lawyer before speaking with the cops.”

Steve rolls his eyes and turns back toward the house, “It’s fine, dad.”

Before Mr. Harrington can get his panties in a twist, you decide to take your leave. Standing, you pocket your notebook with one hand and place the pen behind your ear with the other. Extending a hand toward Steve, you smile.

“Thanks for your cooperation Steve.”

His hand clasps yours—warm and oddly familiar. “You’re welcome, I’m happy to help.”

Cocking your head, your eyes narrow to where your hand meets his. The feeling subsides, quelling any suspicions you may have had.

“Mr. Harrington.” You drop Steve’s hand and nod to his father, “The precinct will be in touch should there be any further questions. Your patience and cooperation are appreciated.”

And with a turn of your heel, you walk away.

A few hours later, there’s another knock at the door.

Steve answers it, waking from a nap on the couch. Eyes slowly opening, mouth like dried cotton.

The advil he’d swallowed earlier clearly did nothing to alleviate his headache, and the nap proved less than helpful.

At least the buzzing had died down. The newfound shortness of breath, however, had lingered.

He pulls the door open with a huff to reveal none other than Chief Hopper and his deputy.

“Afternoon, Steve,” he greets, eyes scanning the entryway. “Your parents home?”

Steve shakes his head, rubs the sleep from his eyes. “A detective already stopped by, earlier today.”

Hopper’s lips pull tight. “Huh.” He nods to the deputy and they leave to assess the scene, “Well, s’it alright if was take a look around here?”

He sighs, growing weary. “Yeah, sure.”

“Get some rest kid,” the Chief says and turns on his heel to go.

Steve shuts the door and drags himself upstairs. Falls face-first into bed with hopes to sleep off his headache and exhaustion.

Doesn’t hear the phone ring or Nancy leave a message.

In fact, he sleeps for three days. Specters of light dancing behind the darkness of his eyelids, and wakes with dried blood in his ears.

Sunday, January 1, 1984

He recognizes the buzzing first, the reverberation lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Knows the headache is likely to follow and shoves his sunglasses on, as if that could possibly help.

Steve’s idling in the parking lot of St. Mary’s waiting for Nancy while she attends Mass. Something about a feast for Mary or the circumcision of the Christ-child, he stopped listening and looped the curls of the telephone cord around his finger.

Parents already gone after the Christmas holiday, never staying longer than necessary.

He’d hemmed and hawed at all the right parts, while scanning through the paper for showtimes. Circled Scarface— as if she’d see that, Silkwood— a maybe, if he’s being honest, and finally Terms of Endearment— god help him.

And now, it was 30 minutes to showtime, and she was running late.

In the distance, he sees a bright flash of light. Hears the rattle and hum that follows.

Soon after, a black impala pulls into the parking lot. Correction, a smoking impala peels into the lot, sliding into a nearby parking spot expertly.

Well, that's new.

He watches as you exit the vehicle, slowly, casually, not with haste. Brushing the plumes of gray smoke aside flippantly, as if it wasn't cause for concern. A pair of sunglasses affixed to your face, frames and lenses dark resting on your nose and cheekbones.

A tiny lift of your crimson mouth is all it takes to send the blood rushing to his head. You nod in greeting to the congregants as they exit the church, as they shake hands with the priest and visit in the narthex.

You share a look with the priest, meaningful and urgent.

A tingling sensation as Nancy opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.

“Sorry about that.” She leans over to kiss him on the cheek, but Steve can’t stop staring at you.

Thank god for sunglasses.

“You okay?” Her voice is tinged with concern.

“Yeah, fine.” He says absently, shifting the car into gear, “Thought I was getting a headache but—”

“Another one?”

Steve sucks his teeth, he really doesn’t want to have this conversation again. “It’s not a big deal Nance.”

The tension in his neck and shoulders alleviated, a dull roar in his ears.

Pulling out of the parking lot, they pass where you’ve parked. His sunglasses slip minutely, just enough for him to glance at you over the bridge of them.

Catching his eye, you send a redolent wink in response.

“Do you know her?”

He clears his throat, letting the pedestrians pass by. “Uh, maybe?”

Nancy turns quickly, hazarding a glance, licks her lips while Steve clenches his jaw.

“Wow,” She breathes. “She’s—”

Steve speeds out of the parking lot like a bat outta hell. And Nancy never got to complete that thought.

Saturday, November 3, 1984

He doesn’t see you again that year, but Nancy does.

Saturday, June 29, 1985

The heat on this bus is oppressive. Offensive, even.

Even more so combined with the sweat 70-odd middle schoolers. The green ringer t-shirt with the unfortunate goldenrod yellow collar wasn’t helping things either. But, if you’d known all the particulars, you wouldn’t have taken the job.

Bagging hellspawn in the wilds of Wisconsin wasn’t worth dealing with a bunch of tweens who were hormonal and struggling to develop something called empathy.

They were mean in a scarily accurate and precise way.

“Okay twerps!” You raise a hand in the air, and count it off, “1, 2, 3, eyes on me!”

You lean against the back of the seat, facing the kids as their conversations drop to a murmur. Clipboard in hand, you flip through the brightly colored papers before addressing them once more.

“We’ll be coming to our final destination of Hawkins, in a few moments.” You pause to wipe your brow, “Couple of things to keep in mind: take only your stuff and no one else’s. Locate your adult person, parent or guardian, and then…”

You wait as the bus hisses to halt in front of the high school.

“Hey, sit back down Henderson, I’m not done yet.”

He grouses, crosses his arms and reluctantly sits.

“Right, so you find your adult and then check-out with me. Get it?”

“Got it!” They yell back and then it’s off to the races.

You brace yourself against the onslaught of tweens rushing toward the exit, clipboard clutched to your chest.

After the deluge, you scramble off the sticky plastic seat. “Thanks Larry!” You call to the bus driver and walk down the aisle, making sure no one left anything behind.

A radio crackles to life a few rows ahead of you.

“Dustin? Do you copy? Over.”

Rolling your eyes, you grab the hunk of plastic and thumb the call button. “Uh, roger that. Breaker one-nine. Henderson left his walkie on the bus. Over.”

Static and then.

“Shit.”

Shoving the behemoth in your back pocket, you step off of the bus, clipboard at the ready to check-out the campers.

Swamped with beleaguered kids and frazzled parents demanding medications and prescriptions, and mailing addresses and so forth, that you barley register the crackle and static from the walkie.

“Can you uh—” You wag a finger at an overly eager parent and pry the thing from your pocket. “What?”

“... Are you seriously mad right now?”

“Yes!” You sputter, rolling your eyes at the voice over the radio. “I’m kind of trying to do my job here.”

A laugh. “Funny, I thought you were a detective.”

You pale, a dull roar crashing through your ears. The voice is warm and melodic, slow like honey.

Handing off the clipboard to a junior counselor, you peer across the blacktop. And spy a figure leaning against the hood of a red car wearing black sunglasses. A smaller figure, jumping and waving at you in, of course, green and yellow.

“But then again.” The fuzz of static. “You were getting cozy with the padre, so maybe a change of pace. You a novitiate or just confessing?”

You refrain, with difficulty, from rolling your eyes.

“What’s it to you?”

Dustin whining when it clicks back on, “C’mon man.”

“Dinner.”

A scoff, “You wish.”

“Clearly.”

His response brings you pause, unusually forthright.

Lip pulled between your teeth, you leave him hanging for a minute and mentally sort through all the reasons why you shouldn’t.

Potential murderer - they never did find Barb Holland.

He apparently hangs out with Henderson—too many questions there to unpack there, but mainly: … why?

Already has a girlfriend, Nina… Nicole?

It would distract you from your work, but all work and no play makes you restless, and a little reckless. Speaking of which…

Pressing the call button down, you sigh. “Counter offer. I’ll allow you buy me a late lunch at the diner.”

You remember seeing a payphone somewhere around there and it’s public, so if it goes south you’ll have an easy out; you make plans to befriend the waitress, just in case.

The smugness radiates from his voice. “We have got to work on your negotiation skills.”

A crackle of static. You make a big show of turning the walkie’s dial off and shoving it back into your pocket before going back to work.

Following the directions he’d sent down with Dustin when he collected his precious walkie-talkie, you pull up to a place called Enzo’s.

Scanning the parking lot, your lips pull into a scowl when you see him.

Ah. There he is. You slam your door shut. That motherfucker.

Grinning like he’s the cat that caught the canary and goddamnit, being that attractive when smug shouldn’t be allowed.

“This isn’t what I agreed to.”

“Huh.” He cocks his head, “You don’t say.”

“What’re you playing at Harrington?”

He shrugs, hands shoved in the pockets of his too-tight jeans. You make the mistake of keeping his hands in your eyeline, looking down as you do so, and audibly gulp at the sight. Those jeans sure are tight, aren't they?

“My eyes are up here.”

You frown, and he laughs. Walks you into the restaurant— holds the door, and pulls out your chair, like a real gentleman.

A waiter quickly stops by, taking drink orders and rattling off the specials. You glace around the dining room, feeling out of place amongst the off-the-shoulder tops and high heels. Crossing your Converse-clad feet on top of one another, you stow them under the table and out of sight.

At least you weren’t wearing the ‘CAMP KNOW WHERE ‘85’ t-shirt and shorts any more.

Small miracles.

“Oh,” You say before the waiter, Kevin, goes to his next table, “Is there a payphone around here? I need to make a quick call.”

“You can use the bar phone,” He points to the bar by the hostess station. “Chris will be happy to help you.”

“Thanks!”

Steve eyes you as you stand up to leave, “Better be local distance or Enzo’ll be mad.”

“Bite me.”

He sips his drink. “Only if you ask nicely.”

With a roll of your eyes you leave him at the table perusing the menu.

Rapping your knuckles on the bar top, you smile as the bar tender approaches. “What can I get you?”

“Kevin said I could make a call from here?”

“Oh, sure.”

He leaves to get the phone and slides it in front of you before assisting another customer. You punch in the 618 area code followed by the all-too familiar number and listen as it trills.

Murray, of course, answers on the final ring.

Asshole.

“Behold!” He crows, “She brings me good tidings of great joy!”

“I hate you.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, yeah. What else is new?”

You turn back to look at Steve, he, annoyingly, waves. You reply in kind, waving your fingers before flipping him off.

“Not cursed? Bloodsick? Howling at the moon?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Still a messianic specter, sorry to report.”

“Sooooo.” You drawl, “This is your way of telling me you’ve got nothing.”

“Uh, huh.”

“And there’s no news.”

“Yep.”

You sigh, resting your forehead against the smooth lacquered wood of the bar. No jobs, no prospects, just great.

“Where are you staying? I’ll give you a ring when I get something interesting.”

You hum and stand back up. “Dunno Murray. Was kinda counting on a job to get me outta this town.”

Chris slides a drink down to you. Tequila, if you had to guess. Down the hatch it goes. You nod in thanks.

“Well, call me when you’re settled. Who knows, a slow summer might do you some good.”

“Ugh.”

You hang up the phone with a clatter and turn back to the table with a huff.

Under the evening sunlight scattered by a canopy of leaves and panes of glass, he rests his hand on your bare shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly.

Steve shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be as cavalier with his hospitality and his attention. Doesn’t know you from Adam and has already offered up the guest room.

He’s not normally this sloppy. But after things had gone sideways in ‘83 and then gone to shit in ‘84, Steve found himself slipping. Always looking over his shoulder, wondering when you’d blow back into town.

The detective turned nun turned camp counselor (Dustin swore you made the best s’mores) turned… well, whatever this was.

Not such a mystery anymore.

There is heat. There is the frame of his bed cracking. Carpet burns on his knees and back. Damp hairs on the nape of your neck. Bruises and bite marks and scratches all over him and strangely none on you, but not for lack of trying.

When he holds your torso against his, you grip him right back, and the pressure makes him feel like he could snap in half. It is wild and ferocious, tension sparking like a snarling animal ready to pounce.

He doesn’t call you darling or baby or sweetheart because those servile names feel so discourteous to what you actually are (and it’s only an inkling, but if he’s right—). He only pants and grunts and whispers fuck, fuck, fuck like a prayer.

“Don’t hold back on me now, Harrington.” You laugh, licking the sweat dripping down into your mouth. “You’ve always been honest. Go on, tell me what you want.”

He fists your hair from behind, pulls a growl from your throat, tangles his legs between yours as the two of you lie on your sides and goddamn it, he fucks you like he could die tonight. The sound of your ass slapping the smooth plane of his torso rings like a bell through the room. Your fist finds a handful of his hair and wrenches him away. You hold him down and crawl on top with a low chuckle.

“Tell me what you want.”

It’s futile to fight you. You are faster and stronger and beneath you, in the vastness of his own room, you could swallow him whole and he would let it happen.

“I want you.” Steve breathes, raspy and raw, grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to pull you down. You bat him away and lean back instead, propping up on your feet, knees apart, showing him the entirety of your body. Gorgeous. Marble smooth. Hard as granite, but flecked with gold and dappled light.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat.

You look cold in the way a statue might, but in the center where you are hot and wet, he could devote himself to forever.

“I want you now.”

With a savage grin gracing the transcendent beauty of your face, you allow him this request. Steve Harrington, merely mortal, succumbs entirely to your touch. His body melts into yours, shudders with reverence for your power and gravity, and he feels like he could burst apart inside of you.

Your breath is all he can hear. Your sweat is all he can taste.

You are ethereal.

And he will worship you to the end of his days.

Thursday, October 31, 1985

The bells chime on the door of Family Video before he can say that they’re closed and yes, they’re also sold out of Ghostbusters and Beverly Hills Cop.

Robin had already clocked out, picked up by some friends from band for a Halloween party, so it was just Steve closing up.

Too distracted by counting the till to acknowledge the buzz in his chest, the tension melting from his body. A distinct lack of headaches for a few months now too.

“Steve.”

A soft drip on the floor, like a leaky faucet when he glances up.

And you’re stumbling on the carpet like it’s moving beneath your feet. You’re trying to give Steve a reassuring smile and only getting across a grimace.

From what he can tell, at least.

Because you are absolutely, positively covered, head to toe, in so much blood and viscera it’s no longer red but black, dripping off of you like sludge where it hadn’t already dried. The whites of your eyes and teeth are visible, and that is not an image he necessarily wanted to have of you.

Ever, really.

“I’m alright, Steve,” You attempt. Your teeth are chattering.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Steve replies, shutting the register drawer with a flick of his wrist and shoving the deposit in the safe.

“This, uh,” You glance down at your current state, frowning.

“Not yours?” He guesses, stepping out from behind the counter, paper towels in hand. “Well, I’d hate to see the other guy.”

You rasp a laugh that quickly devolves into a cough.

“Yeah,” You say once you’ve recovered, “Totally nailed him.”

He can see as you waggle your brows, underneath the layers of blood, dirt, and grime— dried blood pulling your skin taut as it moves. Steve sucks his teeth.

“I don’t even wanna know, do I?”

Delirium is definitely sinking in because you laugh, recalling the nail gun and the thunkthunkthunk of steel driving into flesh, muscle, and bone. The screams and wails, followed by the death-rattle. His hands are on his hips as if he disapproves, worry evident in his brow.

Being the liaison between humans and other beings (part-time, at least) means that the messenger should never have the urge to endanger a human or else it would totally compromise the position. And yet here you are, fantasizing about Harrington’s beautiful, well, everything.

Hazards of the job. Strictly speaking, the types of folk you deal with aren’t necessarily human. Technicalities, and all that.

“Okay champ,” He says, wiping at your face with a dampened towel. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then to bed.”

You can’t help the giggle that erupts from your throat. “I’m not human, therefore, I do not require sleep.”

“Sure,” Steve nods along with your yammering, paper towels coming away equal parts black and bloody. “Whatever you say.”

Steve never pegged you for a sleep-talker, or whatever the hell this was.

“JAIDA, DE BAB DE ILS, DLUGA UMADEA PAMBT STEVEN, OD TABAORI AQLO BRANSG NOTHOA STEVEN, DORPHAL TOX , ASOBAM ILS DLUGA IEHUSOZ.”*

Foreign language aside, he has no idea what is going on.

Bright shafts of white light emanate from your eyes, he can barely see your pupils anymore, in their place a gold band circling your temples adorned with rapidly blinking eyes, and he has to squint and shield himself with an arm from the illumination.

He backs away, slowly, so as not to startle you. But clearly your attention is drawn elsewhere, what with all the eyes and the—

The fuck?

The… hovering. Because you’re not seated on the bed anymore, the mattress doesn't even dip with the suggestion of weight. And there is a considerable distance between your crossed legs and the sheets.

He feels nauseous and dizzy. An ever-present buzz along his skin and thrumming from the inside out. Hears the beating of wings, the shuffling of feet.

Steve clamps his hand over his ears, hating the damp squelch of it, just hears his blood rushing and heart beating instead. Wills his eyes closed, turning away, impossibly, from your glorious display.

Takes deep breaths and counts to 100. Again. And again. And again.

The touch of your hand on his arm is so light, that it doesn't even register.

Steve comes to gradually, only to find you not covered with a halo of eyes and clearly abiding by the laws of gravity.

Did he hallucinate all of that?

“Steve,” You whisper, hand rocking against his shoulder. “Steve, wake up.”

Was it just a dream?

He grumbles, half-waking and bats your hand away. “‘M’up.”

“Yeah,” You laugh. “Okay, you’re up.”

A shake of your head as you sit back against the bedframe.

Steve stretches, skin skimming against the worn sheets and feels perfectly sated. Doesn’t recall falling asleep or how he got into bed though.

Remembers seeing you at work, he was closing… Your bright eyes and teeth… And not much else. Maybe something about blood, if he concentrates.

“So.”

You’re seated a careful distance away from him on the bed. Legs fallen lazily onto themselves, hands open and resting against your knees, like one of those yogis he’s seen around town.

“You gave me quite the fright there.”

“Could say the same to you,” He counters, voice raspy with sleep. “What was—”

“Meditating.” You’re quick to answer him.

He arches a quizzical brow. “Meditating. Really?”

Bottom lip pulled and worried between your teeth. “It’s a form of introspection. Communing with your higher states of consciousness.”

“Riiiight. We’ll call it meditating. For the sake of argument.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

He shrugs, rolls his neck and shoulders. “I never said that.”

You squint, staring at him. Your hand comes up to grasp his jaw and slowly turn his head. Face remaining impassive, you cluck your tongue and rise from the bed.

“Stay there.”

The commands thrums through him.

Steve watches as you leave the room, heading across the hall to the guest bath. Hears the water running from the faucet, the wringing of a damp rag. Soft footfalls herald your return, plopping back on the bed and dabbing the washcloth against his jaw and ear.

A tap against his chin. “Other side please.”

You do the same to his opposite ear, humming to yourself under your breath. Thunder sounds in the distant night, a storm rolling through.

Deeming it a job well done, you toss the cloth into the hamper. White terrycloth tinged rosy red. A cool hand turns Steve this way and that, your eyes darting across your handiwork.

“How’s your head?” You ask, voice soft.

“Fine.” Shakes his head, in proof, rattles his brain around. “No complainants.”

“Mmm.” You hum. “No migraines or auras?”

“Not for a while now.” He clucks his tongue, “But I didn’t tell you about those.”

Ah. Now he’s caught you out.

Your mouth hangs open, gaping like a fish.

“Hey,” His hand settles over yours, warm and familiar. “It’s fine. You’re just … perceptive.”

A laugh, the rustling of wings somewhere. “Is that so?”

Steve pulls you toward him, the air punched from his lungs as your shoulder collides with his chest. You apologize profusely, rearing back and away from him.

He tugs you back into his embrace, both arms settling around you and falling effortlessly at your hips. Feels a pleasant glow at your temples, sponges a kiss there. Catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, your image seemingly replaced with iridescent reflections of light. A crown of fire round your head.

And is alarmingly at peace with it all.

Friday, November 1, 1985

The next morning you’d already left by the time he woke up.

A glass of water, a crumpled scrap of paper, and business card were on the bedside table. He picked up the water, gulping it down readily and scrambled for his glasses.

He grabbed the papers, the larger one seemingly covered in glitter, dust? Something golden getting all over his hands and sheets. Squinting because he never did get to wiping off his lenses, Steve read the business card first. Simple and to the point, nothing he didn’t already know.

The scrap of paper however, was beyond him.

Well, shit.

He dials Robin, figures if anyone could translate, it’d be her. Then calls the number listed on the card as he waits for her arrival.

An annoyed voice answers. “Ugh, this better be good, Harrington. I’m a busy man.”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“That’s not important.”

“What do you mean? How is that—” He sits up, cradling the phone between his shoulder and jaw.

“How did you get this number?”

“Uh, Constantine. How else?”

Whomever he’s speaking with roughly pulls the phone from their ear and mutters a litany of curses. Surprisingly few in English.

He takes a breath, waits for the conversation to resume.

“Okay, say I believe you Steve. How do you know Constantine?”

Steve arches a brow, devotes all of a few seconds to thought before saying, “Well, we’re uh, involved, I guess, and then she showed up to Hawkins dripping in blood last night.”

The next thing he hears is the sound of something smashing to the ground, quickly followed by a “Shit-cock dumbass motherfucking—” before the line drops dead.

*Highest God, of your dominion, give strong towers unto Steven, and govern your guard amidst Steven to look upon him, whom Thou givest mercy.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #constantine!au #reader insert #fic: through me #steve harrington smut #Spotify

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mariacallous · 11 days

Text

Writing for the Bulwark the other day Cathy Young asked a brilliant question: what on earth happened to the Intellectual Dark Web and its critique of the left?

Go back to the 2010s, and all kinds of people, myself included, were wondering why leftists allied with the most fascistic versions of Islam, and why there was such screaming intolerance in liberal institutions. All of a sudden we were told to accept that white people were inherently racist and that men could become women – just by saying they were.

If you moved in leftish circles and refused to clap your hands and cheer the new orthodoxy, your career was over.

In theory the response ought to have been a liberal defence of democratic freedoms. And from many it was.

But the “Intellectual Dark Web” - the melodramatic name came from a New York Times piece from 2018 – was something else. It consisted of online celebrities opposed to progressive orthodoxy, who revelled in the joy of shocking the liberal bourgeoisie.

The full list of its members ran: Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Glenn Greenwald, Sam Harris, Heather Heying, Claire Lehmann, Bill Maher, Douglas Murray, Maajid Nawaz, Camille Paglia, Jordan Peterson, Steven Pinker, Joe Rogan, Dave Rubin, Ben Shapiro, Michael Shermer, Christina Hoff Sommers, Bret Weinstein, and Eric Weinstein.

As you can see, it was a journalistic concoction, which did not hang together well. Genuine liberals, such as Steven Pinker and Sam Harris were yanked together with reactionaries like Douglas Murray and Jordan Peterson.

Meanwhile the self-aggrandising willingness of many of them to announce that they were “heretics” and “dissidents” was ridiculous. No one is a true heretic, unless they are persecuted. And dissident is an honourable title you cannot in good conscience bestow on yourself – not that that ever stopped anyone.

But once the caveats had been made, you could say that these were people who were willing to attack progressive orthodoxies as they turned oppressive, and in 2018 had a kind of radical glamour.

All gone. Utterly gone. Many of those acclaimed in 2018 have become what they despised – or purported to despise. They are on the side of the enemies of liberty now. They threaten basic democratic freedoms. The alt right has turned out to be the far right, as perhaps it was always going to.

If you are looking for an immediate cause it is clear that Trump has done for them. When the crunch came far too many supposedly intelligent conservatives bent the knee and tugged the forelock, and engaged in an intellectual justification of dictatorial power.

In the process they showed that there are two ways of dealing with left authoritarianism. You can defend the values of liberal democracy, and ally with the many on the left who agree with you.

Did the conservative members of the Intellectual Dark Web do that?

Did they hell.

They produced arguments for tyranny, which the conspiratorial atmosphere of the alt right positively encouraged. In the process, they showed how a critique of the left can end up justifying the authoritarianism of the right.

If you paint the globalist elite as all powerful. If you maintain that progressives have the means to indoctrinate the young through their control of the universities, schools and the mainstream media. If you further posit that they are guaranteeing their power by importing immigrants they know will vote for their centre-left parties, then a dictatorship is a justifiable response to such supernaturally powerful enemies.

Indeed, such is their supposed power of the "woke mind virus," overturning free elections is the only plausible response to a rigged system.

If everything from immigration policy to the schools is a con played by progressive elites to ensure their control of society, there is no other option available to the right. The 20th far right century used the justification that they were saving their countries from the communist menace. The woke menace serves the same purpose today.

I remember being interviewed by one member of the New York Times list, a media entrepreneur called Dave Rubin.

He could not get enough criticisms of the left. And indeed there was much to criticise. However, I pointed out that, if he was a serious man, he must be as willing to criticise the right. He assured the viewers he would.

Now he thinks there are “plenty of good arguments to make for voting for Trump,” even if he’s prone to “lying about everything.”

How brave. How very, very brave.

Cathy Young records how principled people have walked away in disgust. Claire Lehman, the editor of the genuinely challenging online magazine Quilette, said that she had started out believing that the US liberals' claims that Trump threatened democracy were deranged.

She assumed that warnings about Trump refusing to accept defeat in the 2020 presidential election were also “hysterical nonsense”—until it actually happened. The invasion of Ukraine and the willingness of the US right to work for Putin were further blows to her conservative assumptions.

“It really made me reassess my priors,” says Lehmann. “I realized that I had had a blind spot on those two huge issues. So I updated my beliefs.”

Others preferred to adjust the facts to fit their priors—or, Lehmann suspects, pretended to do so “because they don’t want to lose the audiences they built.”

Just so. Sam Harris added a second justification for intellectual cowardice when he said that he was disassociating himself from the IDW label because of other IDW figures’ embrace of Trump’s election-fraud claims. Some of his former allies were “sounding fairly bonkers,” he concluded.

Indeed they were. But they had to. If they were not bonkers to begin with they had to learn to give a decent impression of bonkerdom, if they wanted to appeal to their audience.

Jordan Peterson, a thinker who once had a few good arguments to make, now claims that covid vaccines caused more deaths than the “so-called pandemic,” and declares his lack of faith in every other vaccine for good measure. The podcast king Joe Rogan broadcasts vaccine conspiracism. As does a figure British readers may remember, Maajid Nawaz, who was once a liberal Muslim who fought extremism and now needs avoiding when the moon is full.

There’s a booming market for covid conspiracism in the US and beyond, and it pays to keep the customers satisfied. But, and perhaps I am being naive here, I do not believe cynics can do it. Like so many ideologues the alt-right must believe their paranoid fantasies as they tell them and allow the mask to eat into the face They cannot just pretend. They must believe.

Young writes

“It may be that, because of the dynamics in today’s intellectual and political marketplace, any commentator, media outlet, or group that opposes the illiberal left but doesn’t explicitly oppose far-right Trumpian populism is in danger of being co-opted by it.”

And not only in the US. The next British general election will almost certainly take place near the date of the US presidential election. We have already had Boris Johnson and Liz Truss announce their support for Trump, even though he is hugely unpopular in this country, and is a clear threat to Nato. It would be politically mad for Conservatives to tie themselves to Trump in an election campaign. And yet leading figures will do it for the same reason alt right in the US right do it.

First, they want the money. In the case of British politicians and journalists, the money American conservative lecture circuit provides. Second, they have talked themselves into a position where progressives are an enemy so dangerous that any measures are justified to bring about their defeat – including supporting a threat to the American republic and Western security.

As someone who shared the critiques of at least some members of the intellectual dark web in the 2010s, I can make a fair prediction about what will happen next.

Whenever I wrote criticisms of the left, colleagues would say that the right would welcome and exploit all my arguments, and that was true. As someone once said, I think it was me, “the left looks for traitors and the right looks for converts”. But, so what? A good argument must be made regardless of the consequences.

But then they made a further point. You should never listen to conservatives when they said they believe in freedom of speech, democracy and human rights. All they are concerned with is sectarian advantage.

It has been the historic achievement of the Intellectual Dark Web to prove that the sneering leftists were right all along.

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therealvinelle · 7 months

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I was talking with a bunch of fellow HP fans (if anyone can truly be called that) and I felt really awkward when they brought up ships because the only HP fanfiction I read is yours and muffins. I just quietly under my breath “Tom/Harry” and “Tom/Lily” and suddenly I felt like an outcast.

I tried to justify myself, you have heretical opinions, I agree with most of them. Tom Riddle is depressed..ect..ect.. Nothing worked. I am officially blacklisted from Harry Potter discussions lol

Ah, see, the trick is to stick to things everyone can agree on. Make fun of David Yates, Emma Watson's acting, or the LGBT representation in the series (we've got a 1 to 1 ratio of canon queer characters and canon goatfuckers), in if the conversation wanders off to Tom Riddle territory you escape through the bathroom window.

Also, I'm thrilled you read mine and @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin's fics!

#my fic #praise #harry potter #harry potter fandom

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archtroop · 1 month

Text

'Scary' Islam Is Recruiting Woke 'Useful Idiots' - Yasmine Mohammed (4K...

youtube

Yasmine Mohammed is an ex-Muslim who speaks out against the extreme religion, and how woke useful idiots are being used against us. She was forced to marry an al-Qaeda terrorist, but has since escaped and now speaks out with incredible bravery. #heretics #islamist #usefulidiots

Follow her on X: / yasmohammedxx

Subscribe to her channel: @YasmineMohammedxx

More info:

Through her initiative Free Hearts, Free Minds, she supports closeted ex-Muslims from Muslim-majority countries and co-ordinates an online campaign called #NoHijabDay against World Hijab Day. She also has a website and hosts an online series on YouTube called Forgotten Feminists.

Mohammed has been interviewed by Sam Harris, Seth Andrews, and several news outlets from multiple countries, and in 2019 self-published the book Unveiled: How Western Liberals Empower Radical Islam.

Chapters:

0:00 Highlights

1:30 % of Scary Muslims

5:30 Why Worse Than Other Religions

8:30 Is There Something About the Text?

11:30 Is Islamophobia Racist?

14:05 Can you be an atheist Muslim?

16:30 Yasmine’s Past - What Was I Thinking?

19:10 What Did Allah Look Like in Your Mind?

21:30 Yasmine’s Bravery (Insane!)

23:30 Salman Rushdie Said This

25:20 Yasmine’s Incredible Story

31:30 Marrying an al-Qaeda terrorist

35:30 Covering Herself in Black

38:30 The Beatings She Took

43:30 The Ideology Ruins Love

46:00 Where Islamist Palestine Turned

49:30 Palestine Like ISIS? Using Western Students

52:30 Strippers for Gaza / Useful Idiots

55:30 The Plot to Take Over The West

58:30 Katharine Birbalsingh & Michaela School

1:00:30 Maajid Nawaz

1:04:10 A Heretic Yasmine Admires

#radical islam #woke culture #the lie of Islamophobia #critical thinking #terrorism #the 100 year plan #which sounds a LIT like the Third Reich #“you are looking for the Nazis in all the wrong places” WE TOLD YOU SO FOR YEARS NOW #the muslim brotherhood #jihad #JihaNazism #fundamentalist ideology #Yasmine Mohammed #interview #Youtube

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momo-t-daye · 2 months

Note

For the ask game: 3, 18, 19, 26 👀👀👀

Thank you for the ask~!

3.) Can you describe your AU badly? (Because I do love hilariously misleading but not actually inaccurate descriptions of stories)

Just because Severus’ best friend sorted into Slytherin with him and he’s basically friends with the Marauders, doesn’t mean he's going to make good life choices.

and/or

"That escalated quickly"

18.) Does Voldemort exist in your AU? Does Severus join his cause at any point in your AU?

Oh yes, Voldy exists in my self-indulgent AU! Partly because it’s fun to inflict awful small children on wannabe evil overlords trying to schmooze and partly because a great deal of the canon narrative inertia comes from Voldy and I enjoy how the element of choices etc. can (or cannot) change the story trajectory. The DE as a cult interpretation is particularly interesting to work with (and maybe I think evil villain hubris makes funny noises when jostled and upturned inadvertently by terrible small children).

19.) Does Dumbledore exist in your AU? What role does he play in Severus’ life in your AU?

Yup! Dumbles exists in my AU and plays a reasonably similar role in Sev’s life, although I suppose changes in Tobias alters Sev’s attitude towards any replacement father figures. Dumbledore says “Severus, please" on a regular basis, but it tends to be followed by something like "Stop", "No.", "You don’t have to escalate this situation." , "Not every conversation has to be a competition." etc. etc. If Albus D. could bring himself to interact with Lulu and Cissy, they might find a lot in common… at least on the subject of failed attempts at housebreaking a feral Cokeworth disaster.

26.) Does Severus have any major interests (mycology, astronomy, sci-fi, baking elaborate puff pastries, art forgery, etc.) in your AU that we never got to see canon!Snape indulge in? Do these interests play a major narrative role?

I am very very fond of giving AU!Sev an interest in space exploration and sci-fi partly because the timing of the first moon landing and when the BBC started airing Star Trek happened before he went to Hogwarts and those sorts of things seem like they would appeal to a kid growing up in a nowhere town like Cokeworth (also, if Purebloods don’t believe in the moon landing and think the concept of a heliocentric solar system is hilariously heretical, that can humorously irritate a Severus who likes to be correct and right and has a logical sort of mind). It does play a narrative role, because I find it interesting that Astronomy is a required core class, the Ancient and Noble House of Black has such a propensity for stellar names, and Divination and the appearance of planets are plot features- so perhaps harbingers and omens in the sky should have a bit more weight in the magical world. There were some spectacular comets in the 70s and, well, anyone here remember Hale-Bopp? My AU!Sev also knows lots of fun facts about parasitology, maybe it was to gross out Tuney, maybe he wanted to be a healer, maybe because someone had to introduce the concept of Cymothoa exigua to Harry’s nightmares, maybe because it’s a great way to speed-run “small talk”, y’know!

#Ask Game answers #edited the first answer because the idea came to mind after I posted

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panthera-tigris-venenata · 1 year

Note

For the prompts:

Frollo's house burned down in the middle of the night. Frollo may or may not have been inside. The only one who knows everything that happened that night is Claudine, and she isn't talking.

Yeah, this one is not pretty. Claudine is not having a good time. Like, at all.

It will be good for her in the long run though.

Frollo‘s is burning – again. The flames high, and no one bats an eye. And if there is screaming, well, who cares? The old man had it coming, hadn’t he, and his daughter was seen running through the Isle towards the port.

Thus, no one really cares.

The chapel burns, and so does the home next to it, and still, no one talks. No one brags about killing the judge and self-proclaimed priest, and Claudine won’t say a word, will she?

No, she won’t, save for prayers and curses alike, and something that might or might not have been an exorcism.

Too bad she isn’t the only one who speaks latin here. (All three Hook siblings. Evie. Marya Rasputin, in her broken version.)

Exorcism is fairly easy to recognise, though, after all these years of living in the general vicinity of Claudine’s father, and even if it wasn’t, well.

Claudine was indeed running towards the port, only to halt in one of the dark back alleys of the dock. In the dim light of the dawn, she pressed herself against the wall and into a corner, her palm gripped tightly around the blade of her dagger.

The blood slowly dripped down – drip, drip, drip. Claudine tried to think of the pain in her hand, and she failed.

Thus, with bloodied hand, she reached up and arranged her hairs back into their place: she lost her weil somewhere, didn’t she?

Who cares? Who would blame her?

And like that, bloody and with free hair, she pulls back her shoulder blades and forces her hands to stop trembling, no, stop, now is not the time, is it ever–– she walks through the port towards Gaston’s cabin and prays that Gil is there for once and she will not be forced to visit the false goddess’ ship.

For once, maybe for the first time Claudine can even remember, her prayer is answered. (Or is it? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if she just- didn’t come? She doesn’t need help. She doesn’t deserve help, she––– she should have stayed in the fire.)

Regardless, unaware of her damning thoughts, Gil looks out of his window when she throws a pebble at it, and then jumps immediately out.

„Claudine,“ he lands in front of her and takes her trembling hands to his, takes away the dagger that she is still holding at the right wrong end, „––––, what happened? Are you okay?“

Claudine wanted to nod and say „yes, I am, why would I not be, the God looks over me,“ like always, but instead, tears flowed from her eyes and sobs spilled from her lips.

Traitors.

She chokes on the sounds and presses her lips together, bloodless.

„––––, might I hug you?“ he asks and she leans away from the contact. She shouldn’t be touched.

„Are you injured?“ he asks, still holding her hand gently – she could tug away any moment, run away, why doesn’t she?

„Let me take you to the infirmary,“ he says, urging her to go along, and she doesn’t run away still.

She just lets the second mate of Lost Revenge escort her through the port, and only as they can see the ships, she remembers: „Not Revenge, Gil, not Revenge–“

She doesn’t think she can deal with Uma and Harry now, and whatever cult they have going on.

Gil doesn’t argue with her, only asks: „Hope, then?“ and starts walking again when she nods.

Scattered hope is better. No godlings and heretics. Probably. Possibly.

Only Marya, the half-demon. Claudine hears her praying sometimes, but her prayers are wrong, and her father says said that were Rasputins not dark witches and creatures of pagan hell, there might have been still hope for them, somewhere.

Claudine doesn’t have slightest idea what he means meant by that.

Claudine starts reciting her own prayer under her breath.

Soon enough, they’re by Scattered Hope, and Gil asks for permission to board. The permission is granted, accompanied by several curses. Claudine barely registers them.

She is at the infirmary now, and Gil is with her, still holding her hand. Marya is there too.

„Send her away, Gil,“ Claudine begs in French, sure that Marya won’t understand, „Please, send the demon away. I don’t want to be damned.“

She almost chokes at her words again, but Gil sends confused Marya again, and asks Murphy to get Bonny from Revenge, it’s urgent, pretty please.

„I’m not injured,“ Claudine tells him, but he doesn’t listen, calling for Bonny anyway.

Before the door closes, she sees Marya, upset about being thrown out of her own infirmary, hugging Sammy Smee, and Harriet Hook, impatient as always, pacing the deck.

„I’m not injured,“ she repeats again, nothing happened to me, she wants to say, but doesn’t. That would be lying, wouldn’t it?

„Oh, ––––,“ Gil only says, and asks her if he might hug her again. This time, she doesn’t say no.

She’s tired. Oh God, she is so tired.

Bonny comes and talks at her and Gil tells her what to do too, their voices blending into one. Yes, she can move her fingers. Yes, she can follow Bonny’s finger with her eyes when she moves it. No, the world doesn‘t swim too much, not even when she stands up.

Eventually, Bonny clears her and leaves for the Revenge again.

„I told you I was not injured,“ she tells Gil again.

„You didn’t tell me what happened, though.“

Instead of an answer, she bites her tongue and presses her lips close and shakes her head.

Gil doesn’t make her talk.

The peace doesn’t last long: Harriet Hook barges into the room, heavy footsteps and cloak flaring like a pool of blood behind her, and Claudine sits up, back straight and eyes like steel. She is biting at her cheeks still.

Harriet sends Gil away with but a glare and the doors shut and they are alone, and Harriet knows, Harriet knows, HARRIET KNOWS–

„You did it, Claudine,“ she says.

Claudine bites her cheek harder. She doesn’t want to talk and she isn’t sure this is real, anyway.

„Your father’s chappel is burning, has been for quite some time, and no one has seen him since yesterday,“ Harriet continues mercilessly, „Your father’s chapel is burning and no one says a word about it. No one brags. Calista Jane would have bragged, as would Harry. There would be the flag of Lost Revenge instead of the cross. Ivy de Vil wouldn’t have left the walls standing, and Mal and Maleficent, oh, they fey would have shown off his burned body in the marketplace.“

Silence.

Silence and Claudine’s heartbeat, her blood rushing through her veins. She wishes Gil came back and threw Harriet away; she wished she stayed in the flames, too.

„You did it, Claudine,“ the pirate Captain’s voice is too soft and her words sound like a congratulation, „You did it. You killed your father.“

Claudine looks at her hands, now cleaned of blood and soot by Gil and Bonny, and her fingers twitch for the relief of the blade.

There is no blade near, though, so instead she says it, carefully tasting the heavy words in her mouth.

„I did it. I killed my father.“

Few heartbeats of silence.

Claudine can feel Harriet’s cold eyes on her.

„Will you judge me? Will you tell?“

She can practically see the answers running through her mind, each more cruel and cutting and true than the last, but what actually leaves Harriet’s lips?

A small smile and „no, I won’t,“ and Claudine is grateful for that.

#disney descendants #this still needs editing but do I look Like I care #that’s right I don’t #claudine frollo #gil descendants #marya rasputin #harriet hook #unhealthy coping mechanism #tw religious trauma #tw self harm #arson #implied murder

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