The B Team

Nouran | Probably older than you | 1900s minted | Writes things

[nourangul]

So while it should NOT feel like an act of resistance to hand out copies of the US Constitution...

...it very much does and that's what I'm doing. I'm also buying bulk lots from the ACLU to make what little cash I have go further. They sell them in lots of ten and I'll continue handing them out as long as I'm able.

Pocket Constitution of the United States 10 Pack

Help the ACLU defend and preserve our civil rights and civil liberties by supporting our store. Your purchase helps power our work.

[dyannasdayne]

Shocking, just shocking that they deleted so many good Cole moments that humanized him.

[anamiguelmendes]

Aemond Targaryen in Baldur’s Gate 3. 🫠

[liberalsarecool]

White House version of photo, versus original one by Getty. The vanity is nauseating.

[poetrylesbian]

[poetrylesbian]

[terpsikeraunos]

Women have consistently earned a larger share of humanities degrees than men, but the humanities constitute a diminishing proportion of the

Women currently earn the majority of advanced degrees in the humanities. This has been the case at the master’s degree level since 1970 and

sources for gender distribution of classics degrees

[archaeologistproblems]

Archaeologist problems: Women (in the US at least, likely similar in many other countries) currently earning 70% of recent archaeology degrees, but still being forced to listen to some random guy's (uncited and unfounded) sea peoples theories.

[micewithknives]

Adding Australian data to this - 58% of currently employed consulting archaeologists (CRM equivalent) were women in 2021, and this number was increasing. It’s understood that this is even higher when we factor in academia numbers, and graduate numbers in general, but less data is available on this

[cupidsquilll]

[queerofthedagger]

okay let's actually do this properly

Where do you write your fics/stories

Word

Google Docs

Scrivener

LibreOffice

Obsidian/Notion

ProtonDocs

Notes App

Directly into AO3

Ellipsus

Handwriting

Other (explain in tags?)

Remaining time: 6 hours 29 minutes

[ellipsus-writes]

Uh WOWOWOW we're at #2?! (guys we can't let Google win 😬)

[despazito]

[neo-pussy-deactivated20250705]

Hello skinny tgirl. Lately you've been complaining that your tits aren't growing. In front of you is a plate of food.

[verloonati-deactivated20260305]

[traaansfem]

Unironically my tits grow faster for a few days every time I eat salmon

I should probably cook more salmon

[neo-pussy-deactivated20250705]

Well yes salmon does have some fat in it! And it is good! Try and eat it with some carbs, like potatoes, or maybe blinis. Why not add some vegetables as well? Steamed brocolis, grilled leaks, roasted eggplant, and maybe some cream? That sounds delicious.

[featherboabear]

[dumbtrannybitch]

Idk who this man is but he is right. Eat girls

[commas-georg]

commas save lives,,, rip girls, you were delicious,

[prismatic-bell]

Girls can be eaten many times if you know what you’re doing.

[pixelmason]

[marumicore]

[moth-grrrl-mavis]

No this is accurate

[draconic-daughter]

Shoutout to all the trans girls out there who were forced to live as miserable boys during the 2000’s or 2010’s, missing out on all the weird sparkledog scene rawr xd era and who are now gloriously reclaiming this time in their adulthood. All power to you. Be blessed now and forever, colorful creatures. Go outshine god.

[daysleftofsecondterm]

It’s rawr XD time on 910 days left

[sylasthegrim]

For the Sake of Pride

Pairing • King Aemond x female reader

Tags • post-Dance, angst, non graphic description of childbirth, mention of marital rape, succession crisis, hopeful/open ending

Wordcount • 3,150

Five years after the Dance, you've nearly died giving birth to a daughter, leaving your husband King Aemond without a male heir. He's now faced with an impossible choice—forcing you to bear a son at great risk to your life, or make Rhaenyra's surviving sons his heirs.

Aemond Masterlist

It was raining that afternoon, heavy downpours that covered the Red Keep like a cloak. The labor pains had started in the night, waking you from slumber with discomfort that had slowly built into intense burns that made you wail. Locked in your quarters with the Maester and a flock of midwives, maids coming and going, fetching clean linens and fresh water, you had preferred to keep your husband outside.

Once filled with pride at the idea of bringing princes and princesses into the world, of providing your husband and king with an heir, you were now despairing—the hours had been too long and the pain too great, and the worried frown on the Maester’s face did not soothe your mounting terror.

Aemond paced the hallway like a beast in chains, helplessly listening to your wails and groans through the wooden doors. Never before had he felt so helpless and weak, hanging onto every sound that spilled into the hall, desperate for a word to assure him that everything was proceeding as it should have. 

He had a crown on his head and a realm in his hands, lords and knights bowing before him and cowering in fear, but he was powerless against nature itself. Only the Gods could deliver you from your labor and grant the two of you a healthy babe. 

Hours into his restless pacing, the doors opened once more and the Maester finally came out, looking more worried than was reassuring. Aemond did not wait for him to speak and instead pushed past the old man and rushed inside. “How is she?” he asked over his shoulder, the Maester following him back inside.

Coming to your side, he did not dare touch you—dressed in a linen shift tainted with pinkish fluid, you were standing on trembling legs, gripping the back of a chair, your head hanging limply between your shoulders. 

“I will do my best, but there may be a choice to make,” the Maester said precariously.  

“It is not your choice to make, but mine!” you wailed, and Aemond reached for you, pulling your soaked hair from your face. It was when he noticed the way your entire frame was shuddering in exhaustion and pain, cold sweat making your clothes stick to your skin, and the sight of you so sickly turned his stomach.

“What is happening?” he asked, only then registering the words the old man had spoken.

“The baby is breech,” he explained. “There is danger to it, and to the queen.”

Aemond rose from his crouching position at that, dread settling low in his chest, behind his ribs, and he thought he might never breathe again. He had of course heard the numerous stories of ladies meeting tragic fates in their birthing bed. He knew himself only to exist for the fact that his father’s first queen had perished while bearing him a child, but in his arrogance, he had thought him above such tragedies.

“Speak plainly,” he said coldly, but you interrupted before the Maester could speak. 

“Cut the mother, and you save the child. Kill the child, and you may save the mother,” you said through gritted teeth, your groan morphing into another wail of agony. “It is not your choice to make, but mine!”

Both men waited until your cries had abated, the wave of searing pain receding enough so that you could breathe again. “The choice is yours, your grace,” the Maester insisted, and Aemond could not understand how that could be true, how a man could ever order the death of his wife. 

“We should not be having this conversation,” he replied severely, towering over the old man. “Save the queen, or you will meet the end of my sword.”

At that, a middle-aged woman came forward, holding you up as you tried to breathe through the pain of yet another contraction. “We may try to turn the baby again,” the midwife suggested. 

Reluctantly, the Maester agreed and you were led to the bed to lay down, while Aemond was encouraged to leave the room once more. He remained in the doorway, refusing to be left outside but unwilling to get in the way of the midwives, and prayed to whatever Gods still wanted to listen. 

More soiled linens were carried out, and more cries of agony came from you but you held fast, and finally, after what seemed centuries of suffering, the wailing of a babe was heard in the room and all could breathe again. Aemond rushed to your side without care for the blood, kissing your exhausted face.

“It is done, my love,” he murmured against your temple, and you laughed, relieved despite the pain. 

“The queen is exhausted, but not in any imminent danger,” the Maester said, and it was the first words he had spoken that did not provoke Aemond’s anger. A younger midwife approached then, carrying a babe wrapped in fresh linens, and tucked the small miracle into your arms. 

“It is a daughter, your grace,” she announced carefully, and Aemond watched your face fall, your eyes filling with tears of sorrow even though your mouth was still smiling down at your child.

“I am sorry, my king, that she is not the son you wanted,” you said, your voice thick with disappointment.

For now Aemond wanted to curse the requirements of the realm, and thought that no heir was worth sacrificing his queen for. “Worry not, my love. Rest now,” he said again, kissing your brow and thanking the Gods that you had been delivered safely. 

Months went by and as his daughter grew, Aemond took pride in parading her around the castle. She might have been a girl instead of the son all had hoped for, but he was confident that a boy would still come while he was a young king, and in the meantime, made a point to raise the little princess as was appropriate for any Targaryen child.

Never before had he thought that seeing his blood come alive in another would fill him with such pride and strength. She was proof that his marriage was solid and his seed healthy, and he had no reason to think that a boy would not come, except perhaps the health of his queen.

While your daughter thrived month after month, healing from the birth had been dreadfully slow, and you had come back to his bed with apprehension. He had welcomed you, the two of you finding pleasure in each other’s touch again, and he equipped himself with patience when you flinched at his requests to take you as a husband took his wife.

Instead he found satisfaction in the touch of your hands and mouth, and after a full year, the Maester had confirmed your wounds to be mended. Still, weeks went on and you did not welcome him back into your body. Aemond thought time would heal your fears, surely, and you would give yourself to him fully again.

That night was much like any other—you came to Aemond’s bed and laid down at his side, enjoying the warmth of his skin, however you could tell sleep was eluding your husband, and that a particular subject was weighing on his mind.

Accustomed as you were to the times when the whole realm was a burden, with too many issues to solve or matters too complex to even consider, you could tell the difference when one precise problem was at the forefront of his mind. 

Nestled in the crook of his arm, your face tucked safely on his shoulder, you watched the steady rhythm of his chest, far too deep and slow to be any other than deliberate.

However you had learned long ago not to pry, and that he would come to you whenever he felt ready to talk. Instead you melted into the line of his body, your thigh slightly propped against his, your arm wrapped over his waist, your fingers curled along his ribs, and you enjoyed the mindless pattern his fingertips were tracing over your back.

Slowly you felt and saw the particular heaviness of arousal creeping into him—his breathing lost its precise rhythm and instead came in shuddering sighs, his skin rising in shivers as his abdomen clenched minutely. Through the thin cotton of his sleeping trousers, you could see the curve of his cock slowly filling, rising from where it usually rested on his inner thigh. 

Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you slowly extracted yourself from his embrace to mouth at his chest, your hands cradling his waist, and you began your slow descent between his thighs. However as you reached his hip bones he brought you back to his face, and you were glad for the kiss of his mouth to yours.

Curious as to what he wanted more than your mouth on him, you allowed him to tip you to the sheets, until he settled between your parted knees and rolled his hips into yours. The feeling of his hard length felt as though a tongue of heat had licked up your core, but nausea rose in you all the same.

“No,” you said firmly, and Aemond removed himself from atop you, an obvious look of disappointment and sadness upon his face. 

At that you rose from the bed, picking up your robe and pulling it over your shoulders, simply to occupy yourself and regain some composure. Sitting up with his knees bent, Aemond watched you with a pained frown, then sighed. “It has been over a year now,” he commented, direct but careful in his tone.

“I have satisfied you in other ways, haven’t I?” you asked, tightening the belt of the robe around your abdomen, and you heard him whisper his affirmation. “What is it, then?” you inquired even though you knew the answer. 

Rising to follow you, no doubt in an attempt to calm your anger, Aemond came to stand before you, and his eye bore into yours as he spoke. “I need a son and heir,” he said, and the firmness of his tone made it sound like a command from your king rather than a request from your husband.

“I nearly died the last time I bore you a child,” you replied harshly. Neither of you had forgotten the utter agony of that day and how close to falling into the Stranger’s arms you had been, along with your babe, but the shadow of the realm was ever present on your marriage.

“The realm needs stability,” he argued, but you cut him off before he could bring any more arguments.

“Do not speak of the realm. It is not about that so much as your pride!” you cried out, and never before had he seen you so distraught. “Rhaenyra’s sons still live, two of them, grown and healthy!”

No other words could have provoked your husband’s fury so quickly, but you could not bring yourself to regret saying them—they were the truth, the undeniable reality of the line of succession, and yet Aemond considered it the greatest insult. “I will not have the son of the usurper upon my throne!” he shouted.

“Would you rather see me dead?” you accused, and the question struck him into silence.

For a moment the room fell silent, only interrupted by your harsh breaths, and you waited for him to retract his statements, to apologize and swear that the matter was closed, but he did not. “The choice is simple then,” you decided, quiet and cold. “If you truly want a son from me, then you will have to force yourself upon me. I won’t fight you.”

Many queens before had to sacrifice themselves for the realm and the sake of their husband’s legacies, and you supposed it was only fair that you would subject yourself to it. Sorrow taking over your senses, you walked towards the bed and laid down on the sheets. True to your word, you parted your knees and let your legs fall off the bed limply. 

To his horror, Aemond followed your taunt and came to stand between your knees, reaching for the laces of his night trousers only to find that his cock was soft. He closed his eye, and the idea of taking his pleasure while you surrendered your will to him made nausea rise in his throat. Perhaps another king would have done it without thought, but he could not bear the idea of diminishing his queen as such.

“I cannot,” he said, and only then did you break, curling on your side and bringing your knees to your chest, one of your hands coming to cover your mouth as you sobbed silently into the sheets.

For days on end neither you nor Aemond spoke to the other, existing side by side as king and queen, father and mother, but the husband and wife you had been first and foremost were gone, an irrevocable change between the two of you.

Time seemed to slow and stretch around you, and where a peaceful future once laid, now only uncertainty remained. The only hope you found was in your daughter. Bringing her into this world had nearly ended your life, and as such you were grateful that you were still on this earth to see her thrive. Seeing the first few sparks of her character grow made you wonder what impact this unfortunate situation would have on her, to be the only child, a daughter when her being a son would have changed the face of the realm.

Inside of you, rage and shame battled, and while some days you felt bitter guilt that you were not able to bear a son for Aemond, other days were filled with resentment and the terrible fear that he would one day grow desperate enough to force himself on you. 

Trust had been broken, surely not irrevocably, but shattered enough that even years from now, there would be visible cracks in it. Every day you prayed for guidance and wisdom, unable to let go of either your humiliation nor your anger, until one morning as you made your way back from the Weirwood tree, you glanced towards the gardens that stretched to the seaside, and noticed your husband in unknown company.

Aemond was walking up one of the garden alleys, and at his side was a young boy you had never seen and yet instantly knew the parentage of—your gaze caught on his slender features and long, thin white hair. “Who is this?” you asked your lady-in-waiting.

“One of Rhaenyra’s sons, the youngest, I believe,” she replied, and you could not name the emotion that rose in your throat at that information. With a quick word and a small smile, you dismissed her and turned towards the gardens. 

As you came up to them their words grew quieter, and as you approached, you could see the line of your husband’s shoulder tense further. When finally the three of you came standing face to face, you searched for Rhaenyra’s likeness in the set of his eyes or the dimple in his chin. 

“Good morrow, my queen,” the boy greeted—his voice was deeper than you had expected for such a young, slender child. 

“This is Viserys,” Aemond introduced with a careful tone before you could inquire, then gave the boy an encouraging tilt of his head.

“The king has offered to supervise my education,” the young prince explained with a touch of pride, and you could not help the way your heart ached. “From now on I am to attend the Small Council meetings.”

To any other child, you would have commented on how generous such an opportunity was, but in this case you said nothing, your husband’s intentions still unclear. “What of your older brother?” you inquired.

“My brother is not suited to ruling, our tutors say,” Viserys explained, lowering his eyes. 

Aemond stepped in then, nodding towards the guards at the end of the alley. “Go along, I need a word alone with the queen,” he instructed. Viserys complied without hesitation, and the two of them watched him walk away, his arms neatly crossed at his back as was Aemond’s custom. “Does that satisfy you?” he asked when the boy was far enough.

“Is this boy supposed to mend the trust you have broken?” you asked, suddenly furious at the question, at the way it was worded rather than the intention, as though it implied you were the unreasonable one.

“He is meant to be my heir, because no matter how bitterly I hated his mother, I would not see you dead in the pursuit of a son,” Aemond said quietly, sounding just as enraged as you felt. “I have set aside my pride for you, what more would you want from me?”

Unshed tears burning the back of your throat, you turned towards the garden, unable to sustain his gaze, and heard him groan in frustration.

While he could hardly look at the child, his very presence a reminder of the costs to the realm and the sufferings he still carried in his very bones, his hatred for his sister and her offspring did not compare to his devotion to you.

“I will raise my enemy’s child for the love of you,” he shouted, and never before had you heard him raise his voice on such a private matter in public. “I have lost everything to the throne, I will not lose you as well.”

Even years after the war had ended, you knew the loss of his brothers still stung as fiercely as it did on the days of their death, and you could not deny you understood the weight that rested on his shoulders. “It is right for a king to expect a son from his queen,” you finally admitted, cold and defeated.

Aemond came to stand behind you, his hands hovering beside your arms, reaching but not touching, and his voice turned soft in the way it only did when addressing you. “I have never held it against you, and never will,” he vowed.

“Not in words, but in your heart, I’m sure,” you accused, and he did not refute it—he could not. 

For nights on end he had blamed you in his prayers, too caught up in his pride to admit the hurt he had caused you, no matter how righteous his pursuit of a legacy was. “Are we meant to resent each other until death do us part, then?” he asked, a touch of desperation to his voice.

With one last heavy breath you turned to look upon him once more, his sharp face contorted in agony. “I am your queen, I shall love you until death pries me from your side,” you promised, and while it did not fill the cracks of your broken trust, perhaps such a simple truth was enough to keep the realm together.

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Based on an anonymous request.

Comments are always deeply appreciated ♡

Aemond taglist: @chattylurker @multyfangirl @thenameswinter99 @darylandbethfanforever9 @still-jon-snow

@jasminecosmic99 @merovingianprincess @bunbunbl0gs @dixie-elocin @xxxkat3xxx

@fluorescentadolescent1 @milostkag @alexxavicry @zaldritzosrose @sapphirehearteyes

@aemondsbabe @targaryen-dynasty @snowtargaryen @lilithgreenbean @persephonerinyes

@slayquweengirlbass @cardi-bre91 @minttea07

[unheardoracle]

Your dialogue is stiff because everyone is being too honest

Great dialogue can come from radical emotional honesty. But in most real conversations, people

dodge questions

answer indirectly

lie (badly)

change the subject

crack jokes to avoid serious answers

lie (convincingly)

say half of what they mean

tell the truth but get so anxious/angry/defensive others now think they're lying

If your dialogue feels unnatural, it might be because everyone is saying exactly what they think, or articulating their thoughts too well. Try letting characters hide things instead.

Subtext is where tension lives.

[skyscrapersanddandelions]

kids of color, you’re allowed to get a bitey when a white friend does something racist. literally 0 percent of people of color are obligated to be nice and palatable for white people. holding your tongue in the name of kindness doesn’t really do much in regards to stuff like this because white people are going to see you calling out their own racism as unkind anyways. white people, if a person of color comes off as aggressive while calling you out for racism, just fucking listen to them. they’re not coming from nowhere, and believe it or not: they know more about racism than you do! shocker, i know. just thickskin it, because it’s really not about you.

[skyscrapersanddandelions]

white ppl can rb but keep your damn mouths shut

[thisisracism]

The notes on this post get a 0 for reading comprehension. There’s probably a pretty good reason OP deactivated, unfortunately.

[kushblazer666]

[vexwerewolf]

I love that this post doesn't include the actual text of his tweet, just his impending presence. This is the visual equivalent of a scare chord.

[writingwithcolor]

Can a White Author Responsibly Write a Lakota-Inspired Magical Story About Religious Colonization? If so, how?

Mentallyamoth asks:

CW: war, genocide, colonization

Hello, I am currently writing a book in a fantasy world setting centering a Lakota-inspired main character. In this world, the magic that you develop depends on your religious beliefs. A long time ago, two large groups with two different religious beliefs silmutaniously decided that their religion was the right one and that they had to convince everyone of it. They colonized smaller groups, fought each other and killed all those who wouldn’t give up their beliefs. Now fast forward, my main character is part of one of these colonised groups, living in a city full of the colonizers. 

She secretly still believes in her religion, which is Lakota inspired, but knows that openly trying to resist the system will kill her and everyone important to her. So, instead, her goal is to become the first one of the once colonized people to earn respect, power and success for herself and her people. She believes that will be enough to undo the injustice done since she’s been fed with propaganda that the war and genocide “wasn’t so bad”. 

She then finds out that there is still people who resist the system, living in secret and preparing for a war. Yet she doesn’t believe that they can do any change and instead originally plans on ratting them out in order to cast a good light on her and her family. Throughout the story, she slowly learns more about what truly happened to her people and decides that she wants to challenge the system she had always been told was the “right one”. In the end, she helps build a society where people respect each other and each others beliefs.

Now, I am a white author and neither me nor my ancestors have experienced religious colonization. However, the topic of religion and the harm it can do, while still being something beautiful and empowering, is very important to me. Still, I don’t want to profit off of other people’s suffering and know that (religious) colonization is a very sensitive topic.

Would it be possible for me to write this story if I do enough research, and if yes, what are some things I have to pay attention to?

—

Let me begin this reply with the story of a real life person: Jody Wilson-Raybould. She was Canada’s first Indigenous Minister of Justice and Attorney General. She joined politics specifically to change the colonialist Canadian society, as an idealist. 

Jody Wilson-Raybould. Photo by Erich Saide

She was actually starting from a better position to change society than your protagonist—her grandmother persevered to maintain tribal governance, and her father was a hereditary chief. She was taught Indigenous leadership from birth, she grew up navigating the worlds of Indigenous and colonizer, and she wanted to be a lawyer, then prime minister.

It took fourteen years of lawyer positions, tribal counsel positions, and volunteer work for her to gain a seat in politics for the Liberal party. The next year, fifteen years after the start of her career in political positions, she was made the Minister of Justice, the third woman and first Indigenous person to hold the role. She accomplished some things in her tenure. She tried to change Indigenous rights, to make them better, but whether or not she succeeded is highly up for debate. She updated women’s rights and children’s rights. She passed cannabis legalization. She also passed MAiD legalization.

Under her tenure, a white man was acquitted by an all-white jury for murdering a Cree boy on his property in Saskatchewan, and people said she undermined the justice system by openly questioning the jury’s verdict on twitter. She had no power to change a Saskatchewan community with a deeply racist legacy.

Four years after she was made minister of justice, she was demoted to veterans’ affairs—likely because she pushed for reconciliation, and to change the colonial system. She was loud, and bold, and demanding, and she lost power for it. She openly called the inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women a farce.

Weeks later, she resigned when there was speculation Justin Trudeau had pressured her to rule one way or another when she was attorney general. She ran as an independent for a bit, but seems to have quit politics since. Burned out, chewed up, writes books about this time in her life and tries other avenues. She’s basically disappeared from Canadian pop culture life, unless you happen to be very interested in this sector of the country’s culture. I don’t know how many Canadians could tell you anything that’s changed for them, unless they directly interacted with her laws—and I don’t know if they even know those changes came from her. 

I tell you this story because here is a real life woman in a significantly better position than your protagonist. She had every single thing going for her, to create something. To change something. To create a middle ground society. And the system ground her down to the point she quit and functionally disappeared.

Indigenous communities are extremely divided on her, some saying she did good, others saying she’s a colonial shill who’s working far too much in the system to ever get land back. Either way, the main relevant thing for you to know is she failed.

The most fantastical part of the story you’re proposing is the fact there is implied success. That there is implied speed. But people like your protagonist exist in the real world. They are lauded and they are slandered. They move the needle slightly, sometimes in good directions, sometimes in bad. But one of the most universal constants in all of them is they fail at producing drastic cultural change. There is too much work to undo colonialism by a single person.

Now, if you read this and think “okay, so I’ll scale back the idealism”, I would invite you to keep reading. Because you’re going to need to fundamentally change multiple parts of this in order to write a respectful story.

1- half of a reclamation character arc

I think this is where the plot falls down the most. Because you jump from “learning everything is a lie” to “and now things are rebuilding and I’m free”, which is how a lot of people think it goes—especially if they haven’t experienced religious colonialism and deconstruction work. 

You basically have the first half of a character arc here, and it’s a perfectly fine first half… until it goes into an altruistic dream instead of really sitting with repercussions.

What I feel like is missing is simple: what is she grieving?

The grief of growing up in a colonial system is staggering. Not just your life, but your parents’ lives, your community’s lives, the pieces of broken chain and disconnect you can see. 

One of my steadfast beliefs is that people need a culture that connects them to something. They have traditions, they have food, they make things, they steward things. They feel ownership over taking care of their families, their property, their community, their everything. 

To me, the root of colonialism is it strips you of that and replaces it with itself, leaving your world a hollowed out shell either fighting to get something, or numbing to stop the pain. It’s traumatic. It is nothing short of traumatic, and that trauma lives in your bloodline as pain. Abuse, addiction, and a disconnect from emotions because you don’t have anything to teach you how to process the world around you, anymore, with these external systems.

This has created breaks in chains that had survived for ages before, and the amount of chain you retain depends on where you landed after it was cut. Someone who lives on a reservation on ancestral land, who returned to the reservation after residential schools, and who has done reconstruction work and knows the language and rituals and crafts and food stewardship and survival strategies has a lot of chain. Someone like me, whose great grandfather left everything to try and become white, hardly has anything. I need to manually go and learn everything from scratch. A bunch of people are in the middle, for varying reasons with varying bits and pieces of what used to be.

The arc right now is the arc I see mirrored in dozens and dozens of asks: I have learned about injustice, and I will gain power to “fix” it. I will be Good. I will Inspire. Things Will Be Better.

Where is the healing? Where is the grief? Where is the time spent unpacking everything and learning to not be bowled over every time you’re reminded of something that was awful because people decided you were sub-human, all because of an idea and a god that told them it was okay to kill everything you loved?

When looking at this character and plot, there’s no real… understanding, on a narrative level, that this colonial system replaced something. It’s treating her secretly practicing magic as enough, when it’s not. She lost so much more than just magic, and she’s only managed to retain the smallest part of her ancestral way of life.

She’s also kinda recreating colonialism by trying to make a new, better thing to replace the present with, instead of reaching back to the broken chain and seeing what parts of it can be pulled into the future. She’s not doing anything to make space for other colonized groups to do the same, as well. It just… ends. With an unrealistic ideal, and a neat little bow that it’s simply realization of lies and injustice that’s enough to get your life back. It’s not.

We can’t go back to the “old ways”, no—the chain is cut, the land has been depleted by extractive processes, the people are traumatized. We do need a new system. But in the end, it’s just as colonial to go full replacement all over again. We need a set of systems informed by the past, before the chains were cut, that lets those colonized become whole again in a way that fits each and every one of them.

What parts of the chain does she hold, beyond magic? What does she want to grab that belonged to her that was stolen generations ago? How will she make space for that? What is fundamentally incompatible with the way the system is now, and what trade-offs will she make to get what she wants? Will what she wants change as she discovers there was an old way, or will she give up connecting fully to her history in the name of trying to move the needle?

I will caution you, however, this sort of story is getting extremely, extremely close to an identity story, and reclamation narratives are fraught in the best of times. I would not make your MC bipoc in this scenario at all, but instead an accomplice to help get the story out and move the needle. I’m simply explaining this in detail for you to understand why this narrative does not land.

2- you’re using a closed practice

Having a magic system implies that it will be used within the story, and will be a plot point. Either way, I’d assume her magic would be described, somehow, and your end goal would be to have it shown in its full Indigenous glory.

This is not going to be possible.

Keep reading

[wendichester]

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ 𝖘𝖚𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖑𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖘 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

submit a supernatural drabble request completely free, featuring the character, reader dynamic, trope, or little scenario currently living inside your head ♡

these requests are being hosted through ko-fi because it makes it much easier for me to organize and manage them without my tumblr inbox becoming completely overwhelmed. new slots will open monthly, depending on my availability.

𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚’𝖑𝖑 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖎𝖛𝖊

✩彡 a supernatural reader-insert drabble of up to 1k words ✩彡 your chosen character, trope, dynamic, or prompt ✩彡 a title, summary, and warning list when applicable

please remember that these are short drabbles rather than full-length commissions. if your request includes a very detailed or extensive plot, i’ll adapt it as best as i can within the word limit, but i may not be able to include every part of the idea. for longer, more developed stories, please take a look at my paid commissions instead.

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘 i can write for characters beyond sam and dean! this includes castiel, crowley, gabriel, lucifer, jack, charlie, and plenty of other supernatural characters.

currently, i only accept smut requests for sam and dean. although i have written smut for castiel in the past, it’s not something i’m offering at the moment.

𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖉𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖑𝖘 ✩彡 most of my work is written with either a female or gender-neutral reader. unless you specify otherwise, i’ll choose whichever feels most natural for the request. ✩彡 you are always welcome to request a male, gender-neutral, nonbinary, or otherwise specifically characterized reader. please include any relevant pronouns, physical details, identities, disabilities, conditions, or experiences you would like represented. ✩彡 i am a white, straight woman and understand that there are experiences i have not personally lived through. i will approach each request respectfully and research unfamiliar subjects whenever possible, but constructive corrections are always welcome if i unintentionally write something insensitive or inaccurate.

𝖎 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊 ✩彡 non-consensual sexual content ✩彡 sexual assault ✩彡 incest or wincest ✩彡 pedophilia ✩彡 racism or discriminatory fetishization ✩彡 animal-hybrid readers ✩彡 requests that require characters to behave completely unlike themselves

i also reserve the right to decline anything that makes me uncomfortable, even if it’s not specifically listed above.

𝖕𝖆𝖞𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 ✩彡these drabbles are completely free. you are never required or expected to pay anything when submitting a request.

the pay-what-you-want option is available only for anyone who voluntarily wants to leave a tip. tips are incredibly sweet and help motivate and support me, but they will never be required. i’ll continue writing free requests whether or not you leave one.

however, leaving a tip does not guarantee that your request will be written. these are still requests rather than commissions, and i have complete freedom to choose, adapt, combine, or decline submissions based on my inspiration, comfort level, available time, and whether the idea works within the drabble format.

please only leave a tip because you’d like to support my writing, not as payment for a guaranteed story. guaranteed requests are available through my commission listings.

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

if you are unsure whether your request fits my guidelines, feel free to message me before submitting ♡

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

White House admits it scrapped grants to blue states because they didn’t vote for Trump

Team Trump admitted it withheld federal resources from states based on local voters casting ballots in ways the president doesn’t like.