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stevebabey · 10 months

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totally didn’t expect the other part to do well at all but 😳 apparently i don’t know steddie fans. as such, have a part two <3 part one is here again, look out for the borrowed hunger games lines

“You’ve ruined your life, you know that, right?”

The kitchen had been basking in the lull of the quiet morning before Eddie had spoken up, breaking the silence. Steve blinks, realising he’s been zoned out staring at the swirling bubbles atop his mug of coffee and look up at Eddie across the table.

“Doing what you did.” Eddie continues. There’s this slight in his voice. Steve figures it’s not really aimed at him.

Chief Powell had agreed to not release the details of the case to the public for obvious reason. However, it went without saying that of the cops working the case, not all would be so free-thinking. There were plenty who deemed leaking the alibi and letting the town devour Steve’s reputation a more than fair consequence.

And, well, Eddie didn’t have any reputation left to tarnish or save.

Steve takes a sip of his coffee and lets the warm flavour coat his tastebuds as he tries to puts his thoughts in the right order.

He knows how Eddie sees this— sees it as this burden that he’s imposed on Steve’s life. That he had been able to accept it at first, the whispers of freedom tempting enough that he could be selfish enough to gasp them.

Then yesterday afternoon, Steve had come back from Bradley’s Big Buy with dried yolks splattered across the windscreen and regret howled through Eddie like a hurricane, fierce and wild. Realisation of what Steve had condemned himself to— no- what Eddie had condemned him to finally sunk in.

Steve can tell he’s been stewing on it all night. In the couple weeks he’s been here, staying in under the Harrington roof just down the hall from Steve, he’s surprised by how easily his brain has tacked on to Eddie’s habits. His little Eddie-ism’s. That’s what Steve calls them.

Like how Eddie’s nose will twitch if there’s something on his plate he doesn’t like, but he’s too polite to say it.

How he thumbs up and down the edge of a book when he’s reading, completely entranced. Doesn’t even notice his moving, twittering fingers.

How he’s always so much twitchier the morning after a sleep laced with terror after terror. It gives him away before Steve even see the bags under his eyes, the hollowness of his face.

Steve recognises that one from himself, from back when he’d gone through it all for the first time. The flinch is unshakeable when you’re convinced it’s all going to come back— that the world is going to tear itself up and spit out monsters you haven’t even dreamed of.

Today, Eddie isn’t twitchy like that. He’s tired, a sunken in face that comes from a bone-deep aching tiredness. He picks at his breakfast, bitterly avoiding the eggs on his plate.

And Steve can’t pretend to understand how Eddie grew up — can take his guesses but ultimately won’t get near the experiences he knows Eddie has lived through. Steve has only ever been on the other side. Stayed silent while someone else through snide comments and used the word fag like a jagged blade, to cut someone down.

So, he doesn’t know. Not even a year with Robin as his best friend and all her knowledge could’ve prepared Steve for the startling fear he’d felt when coming out of the store to the sight of a group of boys around his car, cartons of eggs in hand. One with a crowbar.

They would’ve smashed his windows if he had come out a minute later, he’s sure of it.

It had been like getting doused in icy water — the Letterman jackets on all of them, the sneers, still jeering taunts as they’d scattered across the parking lot. Steve had felt the bile rise in his throat as he got in the car and sat, staring at the steering wheel, his slimy fear melting and mixing with his anger.

Eddie’s point of view suddenly resounded within Steve in a way he hadn’t known before. Standing on tables, hollering about conformity, leaning in to every foul rumour about him— like a person drawing to full height, making himself as big as possible, to scare off a bear.

Steve gets that a little more now.

So, when Eddie tells him you’ve ruined your life he knows what he’s trying to tell him. Except, Steve doesn’t know how to say lightly that he’d gladly ruin his life to save Eddie’s. It’s too much — but Steve always is. Always loves in these big heavy ways that are too hard to handle.

So instead, he shrugs and says, “Consider it a trade.”

Eddie cocks his head, like a dog, just an inch.

“For following me into the lake and saving my life.”

Eddie scoffs and his head lolls back dramatically like what Steve’s said is ridiculous. “Jesus H Christ, dude, you saved yourself. I told you that I would’ve been too cowardly to come after you if Birdie and Wheeler hadn’t gone in first.”

He mutters the word cowardly with a hiss.

“Well then, a trade for drawing the bats away.”

“You mean the time I nearly became hamburger helper for the bats?”

“Christ, Eddie,” Steve scoffs. “I didn’t take you as someone who fished for compliments so hard.”

Eddie frowns, dropping his fork with a clatter on his plate. “I— what? I’m not- I don’t even—”

Steve cuts in. “You helped us and you saved my life, whether your horrible little brain can admit that or not. So,” He sits back in his chair with another little shrug and sips his coffee. “Equal trade.”

Eddie frowns, a crease forming between his brows. “No, not equal, Steve. You don’t get what you’ve done you— ugh, you just don’t—”

He huffs, cutting himself off, clearly unsure of how to voice his frustrations. He slumps back in his chair and eyes the eggs on his plate again with a glare this time.

Steve waits a moment and hopes he isn’t overstepping when he says, voice quiet, “I know, Eddie.”

Across the table, Eddie’s eyes raise to meet Steve’s and he doesn’t sound smug, he doesn’t sound angry, he just sounds defeated when he speaks.

“Do you?”

“Maybe not quite the extent of it until yesterday but, yes… I know.”

His words sink it and Eddie looks… affronted. His eyes get a little wide and a tremble finds his lips. Like the whole time he’d been convinced Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been getting into, that the reality hadn’t set in— that any moment he would rescind his alibi and throw Eddie to the cops and let them snap the cuffs back on him.

Steve hates that expression. Loathes that Eddie is so surprised that anyone would do this for him — something as important as keeping him alive and out of prison. Steve hates it because he knows it means that somewhere along the way, somebody had convinced Eddie that nobody would.

So, if he’s got to be the one to convince Eddie that someone will— that he will make the effort, will put his neck on the line because… well, isn’t that what Steve does best?

He’ll do it gladly.

Eddie picks up his fork and stabs his fork into the egg, the buttery yolk spilling onto the plate. Steve takes it as a truce, as him meeting him in the middle.

"So,” Steve swirls the mug in his hand and swills another sip back. Swallows it and takes a page out of Eddie’s book and goes the joke, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “If I’m gonna be your boyfriend for the foreseeable future I should probably know more stuff about you. Y’know, like, uh, the deep stuff.”

Eddie’s sunk back down in his seats but at Steve’s final sentence, he perks up. A smirking sort of grin crossing his face and Eddie twists a piece of his hair in front of his mouth. He hasn’t kept eating yet, too focused on the conversation.

"Uh-oh, the deep stuff.” He’s got that teasing tone in his voice. “Like what?"

"Like...” Steve scrambles to pull something from his brain. “Um, what’s your favourite colour?"

“Oh well, now you've stepped over the line."

Eddie’s sarcasm melts into a chuckle as Steve laughs, ducking his head instinctively. When he lifts his gaze, he’s relieved that Eddie looks a little lighter. Not much but a smidge of difference — Steve can see it if he squints. He’s sure it won’t be the last conversation they’ll have about this but for now, it’s settled.

Curiosity piques in Steve and he tries to sound casual when he says, “No, really, what is it?”

Eddie blinks and curls his hair around his finger once more, tugging it lightly. He seems to be considering his answer, eyes dropping to the sweater Steve’s donning.

“Yellow.” He finally says. “Not mustard but, y’know, lighter. Colour of the moon on Halloween or…”

“Cheese?” Steve suggests.

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, the right kind of cheese, sure. What about you? Favourite colour?”

Steve considers it — for the longest time, it had been red because Tommy had told him that red or blue were the coolest colours to like, way back in third grade. No one has asked him since then.

“Pink, actually.” Steve admits, hand coming up to brush across his nose, trying to hide behind the motion. He envies Eddie’s long curls suddenly. He feels the need to explain, more words rolling off his tongue. “Like, y’know, when the sun starts to set, like all dusky, it’s just… nice.”

Eddie’s staring at him peculiarly, his lips parted yet quirked up in this faint smile. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d call it awe. Breaking his stare, Eddie chuckles again, finally properly picking his fork up to finish his meal.

“Steve Harrington.” He murmurs warmly, more to himself. His lips twitch with a smile. “You just keep surprising me.”

—

some people wanted more 🤲 uh get tagged idiot - normally i don’t do taglists but u were all so kind as to reply to the post & i didn’t get a chance to say thank u for ur lovely words! this is my thank u! have sum more!

@friendlyorange @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @lostinadmiration @life-love-musicaltheatre @oldlovershippiemusic5 @phoeniceae @catateme9 @lolawonsstuff @justagaypanda @pluto-pepsi @whoopstie @scenesofobx @justforthedead89 @musical-theatre-gay @theperksofbeingstjimmy @ikilledabuginthewall @imauselessartist @fridgebaby @lingeringmirth and uhhh @corrodedcoughin cos i still do a little squeal when u rb my tings even tho we’re mewchies :D

#ignoring the other characters rn lmao #i wrote it in a day. Sue me #something about like eddie being convinced that steve Doesn’t Understand #cos if he did he wouldn’t have done this!!#and steve being like i know eddie… i know #I Knew It And I Did It Anyways #steve’s puts-himself-on-the-line selflessness vs. eddie disbelieving he’s worth it #[street fighter voice] FIGHT!#uhhhhh does baby boy steve even know he likes men yet? probably notttt #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#ruby writes steddie #steve x eddie #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie hurt/comfort

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imagining-in-the-margins · 1 year

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I feel like so many people have a different interpretation of how Spencer Reid would handle sex. There’s the classic nerdy spencer who keeps stuttering and doesn’t know how to do *it* but knows everything technical, and there’s the mega dom spencer who knows exactly what he’s doing, and everything in between. I’m curious to know what you think is most accurate to how he would be? This can also change from first season to last, etc. I’m just curious what u think!

S.R. Sexual Headcanons (NSFW, 18+)

Early Seasons

Shy and slightly insecure, but eager to please

Would spend a lot of time on foreplay because it is the best way to ensure his partner’s pleasure (and it’s a fun kind of science)

Prefers an emotionally attached partner since sex requires vulnerability he is loath to give

Has a lot of things he wants to try, but he is too embarrassed to bring them up, so he’ll wait for his partner to suggest it (very nonjudgmental)

As he gets older, he becomes more confident and lighthearted in bed

Understands the importance of aftercare and insists it’s his responsibility to hold you (he is actually just a cuddlebug with a really good excuse)

Interested in the power dynamics of kink culture but averse to it because he lacks the self-confidence

Preferences/Priorities: Perfecting oral sex techniques, kissing erogenous zones, sensory seeking activities (experimenting with light/hard touches, but not pain).

Middle Seasons

Brat and Switch Era

More willing to have fleeting sexual relationships

Beginning to feel confident in his sexual identity, more willing to ask for what he wants

Enjoys roleplay, more intense power dynamics, and sensory-heavy foreplay (although still loath to grant true vulnerability)

Confident in his ability to please his partner

Seeks out relationships where he can feel challenged in some way (intellectually, physically, emotionally)

Views sex as one of many ways to establish and express intimacy, would easily forego sex for an intellectually stimulating activity (and loves them as foreplay)

Preferences/Priorities: Ensuring his partner is open/comfortable, advocating for his own pleasure, having fun while having sex, exploring deeper rooted sexual proclivities

Late Seasons

Just wants to feel desired for who he is (he is so tired)

Seeking companionship but unwilling to have long term sexual relationships without emotional vulnerability on part of all parties

Struggles with the darker parts of himself and requires reassurance from his partner (both that he is gentle and strong/“a good man”)

Less likely to engage in heavy roleplay, established “scenes” are rare

A more intuitive lover that adapts to emotional and physical shifts, but very cautious to escalate

Craves physical and emotional intimacy before and after sex (he requires aftercare and is so, so touchstarved)

Occasionally uses sex as an outlet for his frustrations, but usually would prefer to ground himself through sentimentality

Preferences/Priorities: Feeling close to his partner, maintaining boundaries, ensuring the overall experience is enjoyable and everyone involved feels safe

What do you think? Sound off in the comments/reblogs and let me know!

*These lists are just for fun and based purely on my perception of his character. Outside of the variety of my fanfiction portrayals, this is what I consider my “truest” perception of his character. No one characterization is “correct” because there is no knowledge of his sexual personality in canon. Heavy submissive/dominant portrayals are, in my view, valid and arguable for any stage of his character. Do not read anything I’ve said as a condemnation of another headcanon. This is all in good fun!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer Reid headcanons #spencer reid smut #imaginingafterdark #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid blurb #answer #answered #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds headcanon #criminal minds smut

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mckitterick · 9 months

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The End Is Near: "News" organizations using AI to create content, firing human writers

source: X

an example "story" now comes with this warning:

A new byline showed up Wednesday on io9: “Gizmodo Bot.” The site’s editorial staff had no input or advance notice of the new AI-generator, snuck in by parent company G/O Media.

G/O Media’s AI-generated articles are riddled with errors and outdated information, and block reader comments.

“As you may have seen today, an AI-generated article appeared on io9,” James Whitbrook, deputy editor at io9 and Gizmodo, tweeted. “I was informed approximately 10 minutes beforehand, and no one at io9 played a part in its editing or publication.”

Whitbrook sent a statement to G/O Media along with “a lengthy list of corrections.” In part, his statement said, “The article published on io9 today rejects the very standards this team holds itself to on a daily basis as critics and as reporters. It is shoddily written, it is riddled with basic errors; in closing the comments section off, it denies our readers, the lifeblood of this network, the chance to publicly hold us accountable, and to call this work exactly what it is: embarrassing, unpublishable, disrespectful of both the audience and the people who work here, and a blow to our authority and integrity.”

He continued, “It is shameful that this work has been put to our audience and to our peers in the industry as a window to G/O’s future, and it is shameful that we as a team have had to spend an egregious amount of time away from our actual work to make it clear to you the unacceptable errors made in publishing this piece.”

According to the Gizmodo Media Group Union, affiliated with WGA East, the AI effort has “been pushed by” G/O Media CEO Jim Spanfeller, recently hired editorial director Merrill Brown, and deputy editorial director Lea Goldman.

In 2019, Spanfeller and private-equity firm Great Hill Partners acquired Gizmodo Media Group (previously Gawker Media) and The Onion.

The Writers Guild of America issued a blistering condemnation of G/O Media’s use of artificial intelligence to generate content.

“These AI-generated posts are only the beginning. Such articles represent an existential threat to journalism. Our members are professionally harmed by G/O Media’s supposed ‘test’ of AI-generated articles.”

WGA added, “But this fight is not only about members in online media. This is the same fight happening in broadcast newsrooms throughout our union. This is the same fight our film, television, and streaming colleagues are waging against the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP) in their strike.”

The union, in its statement, said it “demands an immediate end of AI-generated articles on G/O Media sites,” which include The A.V. Club, Deadspin, Gizmodo, Jalopnik, Jezebel, Kotaku, The Onion, Quartz, The Root, and The Takeout.

but wait, there's more:

Just weeks after news broke that tech site CNET was secretly using artificial intelligence to produce articles, the company is doing extensive layoffs that include several longtime employees, according to multiple people with knowledge of the situation. The layoffs total 10 percent of the public masthead.

Greedy corporate sleazeballs using artificial intelligence are replacing humans with cost-free machines to barf out garbage content.

This is what end-stage capitalism looks like: An ouroborus of machines feeding machines in a downward spiral, with no room for humans between the teeth of their hungry gears.

Anyone who cares about human life, let alone wants to be a writer, should be getting out the EMP tools and burning down capitalist infrastructure right now before it's too late.

#artificial intelligence #journalism #writing #disasters #the end times #late stage capitalism

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sissa-arrows · 5 months

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Albert Camus could not conceive of Algerian independence, nor could he conceive of himself as separate from French Algeria. It was his “red line in the sand,” the boundary which should not be crossed, the ultimate taboo. Algeria was the jewel in France’s colonial empire, so important that the French authorities considered it a region of France. It was not just a military conquest; it was an administrative one as well. Camus was defined and defined himself by colonial Algeria and could not live without it. Yet the paradox is that Camus persuasively uses the rhetoric of humanism while supporting French sovereignty over Algeria. Many of Albert Camus’ arguments are vastly identical to those trotted out today regarding Palestine.

“What is illegitimate in Arab demands ? The desire to regain a life of dignity and freedom, the total loss of confidence in any political solution backed by France, and the romanticism of some very young and politically unsophisticated insurgents have led certain Algerian fighters and their leaders to demand national independence. No matter how favourable one is to Arab demands, it must be recognized that to demand national independence for Algeria is a purely emotional response to the situation. There has never been an Algerian nation. The Jews, Turks, Greeks, Italians and Berbers all have a claim to lead this virtual nation. At the moment, the Arabs themselves are not the only constituent of that nation. In particular, the French population is large enough [c. 1/9], and it has been settled long enough [c. 150 years], to create a problem that has no historical precedent. The French of Algeria are themselves an indigenous population in the full sense of the word. Furthermore, a purely Arab Algeria would not be able to achieve economic independence, without which political independence is not real. French efforts in Algeria, however inadequate, have been sufficient that no other power is prepared to assume responsibility for the country at the present time.” — Algerian Chronicles

Camus is like the “Israeli left” and a part of the Western Left in general who cannot conceive the total liberation of Palestine. That’s why I said that if they actually cared they would have more “porteurs de valises” and less Albert Camus.

The porteurs de valises who were settlers totally conceived a free Algeria in their mind and they saw themselves living there as ALGERIANS and they did. They also acknowledged that as settlers they had bias and they worked on those bias (I made a post with the testimony of on of those men and how he realized that he had racist bias against Arabs and how he eventually realized that even if he was white his people were not French people but Algerians…) Most of those settlers who fought alongside our grandparents did not leave because they were kicked out at the independence. They left as refugees during the Black decade and had to fill the SAME paperwork as other Algerians. (I could talk about the 121’s Manifest but given that some of the people who signed it turned around and became Zionists I think the manifest was more about white people wanting a clear conscience they did put the right to not be an oppressor on the same level as the right to not be oppressed)

Camus on the other hand was racist he was a product of settler colonialism. You cannot steal, dispossess, oppress a people for over a century unless you don’t see them as fully human. He kept equating the resistance with the oppressor he kept pretending to condemn violence on “both sides” but when he was asked to sign the letter condemning the systematic use of torture by France against Algerians he refused to sign it. He also kept implying Algeria didn’t exist before France anyway. He also showed his lack of knowledge on history by claiming everyone had a right to Algeria anyway not just “Arabs” because Algeria had been part of the Roman Empire and the Ottoman Empire. Jews as a whole have zero rights over Algeria. Imazighen Jews had a right over Algeria because they were Imazighen not because they were Jews. If Turks, Italian, Greeks had a right over Algeria then we have a right over the south of France, over Spain, over Sicily, over Greece because some Roman leaders were Imazighen and because Al Andalus existed.

But what’s maybe one of my biggest issue with Camus, probably because that’s still happening to these days. Is how his position would require only Algerians to compromise. Settlers were simply asked to stop the killing and to pretend to see Algerians as equal humans that’s not a fucking compromise. Algerians on the other hand were asked to pretend that nothing had happened? Those white settlers who had killed your sons and nephews on May 8th 1945 in Setif and around? They never got punished for it. They never even expressed regrets they were proud of it. Algerians were asked to just forget about it to pretend it never happened. The guy who stole your father’s land and is making money from that land? In Camus’ Algeria he gets to keep that land in exchange he must pretend Algerians are equal. The Algerian has to pretend that land was never stolen that he doesn’t have a right to it. In Camus’ vision for Algeria only the Algerian is asked to actually make compromise so the white man gets to be cleaned of his sins.

To these days in the West, PoC are the one asked to make compromises all the fucking time (sometimes on a smaller scale sometimes not). “vote for the lesser of two evils it will be easier to fight and we will help”. Once the lesser of two evils is elected the people who told us to compromise don’t respect their part of the deal they actually call us out when we protest. Because those “deals” are not meant to save us all they are meant to save white people. Because the lesser of two evils doesn’t affect them and their lives so they will be able to afford staying comfortably at home and criticize us for still fighting.

That’s why what I resent the most about Camus is that “let’s make a compromise” attitude that actually only requires compromises from Algerians while settlers get to keep up with their lives the same exact way except they have to pretend they see us as humans. I would believe in the genuine intent behind these compromises (while still being against it) if reparation was mentioned for example but no, settlers get to live the exact same way as they did before they just get absolved of their crimes without ever getting justice. Meanwhile Algerians are asked to pretend nothing happened.

Just like I previously said that a settler colony cannot create settlers without racist bias and that they need to work on those bias, a settler colony also cannot create indigenous people who are not oppressed. Every single Algerian family has a fucked up story to tell about the horror of colonialism. Every single Palestinian family has a fucked up story to tell about the horror of colonialism. Every single Native of Turtle Island family has a fucked up story to tell about the horror of colonialism. I could go on, the point is you can’t ask people to just pretend it never happened because now the settlers are pretending to see you as a human.

#Albert Camus #settler colonialism #algeria #French racism #settler colonialism lead to genocide #racism #indigenous rights #ask

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blissfulip · 2 months

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—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation

Cw: blood, self flagellation, masturbation

Words: 1.7k

[A/N: extremely blasphemous, but again, you saw the tags. Please read at your own risk! (also, let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby

Playlist made by my baby Soln <3 @ihopeinevergetsoberr

Extra ecclesiam nulla salus.

There is a certain comfort in fear. When you see what awaits you at the gaping, harrowing mouth of hell, knowledge of the place you must avoid, ultimately, is power. There was a time when Viktor pitied those who did not know—those who lived despondent lives, unaware and unafraid of damnation. Recently, he had found himself wishing he knew less.

A ravening beast with a thousand bloody teeth, inside its mouth a cauldron, and in it the souls of the accursed with sin, boiling over scorching flames as legions of fiendish demons dragged in multitudes more. This image plagued Viktor’s mind without rest, be it vividly in his dreams, in the colossal fresco at the entrance of his local cathedral, or in the comical props onstage at the theater plays.

The parish clergy that had taken him in as a kid had made the mistake of noticing his outstanding intelligence and awarding him time to dedicate to studying philosophy, a privilege that many of the choir monks and lay brothers did not receive. In university, philosophy had turned into physics, and soon that turned into astronomy, which he had to keep a secret on account of the recent prohibitions put in place by Paul V’s Inquisition over the study of Copernican theories.

After he was ordained and returned to his home cathedral, this once silent yet innocent interest had turned into complete secrecy, and the fear of God that had once given him solace now tormented him. At times he considered giving up on his work; the mechanical objections of Copernican theory should not be of this much significance to him after all; there had to be something of value in what Thomas Aquinas had to say, and perhaps Agustine of Hippo had some good points. Nevertheless, it was the night sky that called to him, and even this far from it, he could not escape.

But outside the church there is no salvation , and Viktor knew that even if he was never to be condemned as a heretic in life, what awaited him in death was a flaming tomb at Epicure's side. Quod extra ecclesiam nulla salus.

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

His parish was a pious one, but Viktor would refuse to receive lithe from the members of his church. The first time he tried this, the bishop was immediately alerted, and he was secluded to live in the small room inside the chapel as a ‘punishment’ for his impertinence. Viktor did not mind; the lands he had been previously allotted were too much to care for on his own, with cleaning being especially hard once his leg would start tiring out, and the presence of the personnel of lay brothers that would follow him around made his studies impossible; thus, the contained space of the church was comfortable to live in on his own.

It had been a particularly cold morning. The week before, he had received word of the imminent visit of his diocesan bishop, and the impending possibility of his stay at any moment in the near future had tied his eyebrows into a permanent knot and his shoulders into a tense bundle of nerves since that morning.

To his dismay, the state of his works had made no decent progress, his journal being nothing more than a few numbers and three words on a painfully empty piece of parchment. He understood Latin; he had studied it at length in university, but when he took a break to read the Bible, the words on it floated around aimlessly, in a messy concoction of nothing.

“Per fidem enim ambulamus et non per speciem,” he repeated to himself in a whisper, and then closed the pages lethargically.

He read the cover of a white volume that had been lying on his desk for over a month now. He was sure he would have possibly agreed with what Foscarini had to say, so the feeling of dread he felt every time he laid eyes upon the title was mystifying to him. Though it made sense after some reflection, he was afraid.

When he read Copernicus, it felt distant, a world he was only a visitor in, but the Foscarini was a carmelite father, one of his own that was now nothing short of a persona non-grata in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church. Viktor was afraid that what he had to say might make sense and that he might be so correct in his observations that this knowledge would drag him into the same status.

In retrospect, he should not have read it.

In fact, opening the cover was a big mistake on its own. Not even 3 pages in, the door of his room unceremoniously barged open, revealing the full figure of Father Isodore. Viktor and him never really got along; his time in the monastery as a kid was full of rule-breaking and inappropriate questions, and to Father Isidore’s dismay, insatiable curiosity remained Viktor’s fatal flaw well into his adulthood.

Not a single word was uttered as he carried his sunny disposition and rubicund complexion over to Viktor’s desk. There was no use in trying to hide what he was holding; Viktor carried the same guilty look on his face every time he did something he was not supposed to. Once a cute kid trying to hide some innocent misdeeds, his expression had grown into one of unadulterated shame and indignity in the wake of sin, and the bishop knew this all too well. The book was snatched off his hands aggressively.

“‘Epistle concerning the mobility of the earth’,” he read, “would be an interesting read if only as a piece of fiction, and perhaps in a different climate.”

“Your excellence, I eh—”

“Save it. Don’t worsen your sin by bearing false witness.”

Viktor looked down and sighed in resignation, a disappointed sadness creeping up in his throat.

“You are very much aware those texts have been forbidden, but since words seem to slide off you, I hope physical penance can remind you of your depravity,” Father Isidore said coldly as he handed Viktor the whip that usually served as no more than a piece of decoration adorning his wall. “Ten of them, and be intentional. One pater noster after each.”

“Yes, father.”

“It’s a shame; I have come to congratulate you on your work for the community. Repent. ” The emphasis on the last word punctuated his departure.

A cold feeling arose in Viktor’s stomach as he looked down at the whip, something akin to fear but also awfully comparable to excitement.

Three deep breaths are what he allowed himself; it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible. He removed his vestments unhurriedly, only his bottoms remaining as he sluggishly kneeled by the bed, and the chilled air on his back was, in hindsight, not as bad as he thought at the moment. His hand trembled slightly when his grip on the whip tightened, and his jaw locked into a gritted grin as he sucked air in through his teeth.

The first flick of his arm was swift, like ripping away a bandage to make the pain go away as fast as your wrist could tug at it. It did not help; the feeling of the small metal beads digging into his skin was instantaneous, and it disappeared soon, but the burning that replaced it lingered.

“ Pater noster, qui es in cælis:sanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cælo et in terra .”

A swarm of ants biting at the exposed skin on his back was a scorching fire.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie,et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris; et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a malo.”

Then it subsided, and the slight chills on his arms were due to something else. He took his time with the second hit, languidly whipping both hands back this time to maintain the same level of strength. The aching this time was different; the burning of his skin was quenched by the few droplets of blood and sweat trickling down his spine. And there was something else—a burning feeling that was misplaced not on his back or wrists but in his lower stomach.

“Pater noster, qui es in cælis:sanctificetur nomen...” He started once again, both hands holding one another around the handle of the whip, closed in prayer as he shut his eyes tightly for concentration. This proved to be fruitless when an uncomfortable tightness in the fabric around his crotch distracted his attention away from the words he was reciting. He tried to continue with his prayer, but an ill-calculated movement tugged at the tender skin of his back, and the brief sting made the already confining feeling worsen, morphing into an odd mixture of ache and delight.

He figured out what this meant soon enough. The conflicting feeling did not originate from any sort of confusion about what he was experiencing; it came with the quandary of his two options: either keep going to conclude his penalty and follow orders, or go against those orders to avoid tainting this sacred act with his depravity.

He unlaced his trousers before going for the third whip. The aching feeling on his back was almost completely gone, replaced by a numb tingling along the wounded skin and an unbearable heat in his groin. The fourth hit was one-handed. Right hand wrapping tightly along the handle and left hand mirroring the grip around his cock as he pumped himself mechanically. When the metal hit the skin, a jolt of what felt like electricity traveled all the way down to his stomach, the member on his hand twitching in anticipation.

There was no fifth hit or anything beyond that. A final tug with a firm hand and gritted teeth culminated in his climax, hot viscosity percolating through his fingers as he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. His chest heaved up and down as he whispered a string of prayers. Shame washed over him.

“Castigo corpus meum.” He repeated incessantly until he had enough strength in his legs to stand.

#viktor #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane #arcane au #viktor au #priest au #legion #Spotify

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ilynpilled · 8 months

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we do not excuse jaime for just being an inexperienced teen, we are acknowledging the reality of it straight up not being possible for him to teleport over from 7 to the drawbridge of 26 faster than it takes two men to finish scaling the walls of 26 (the text confirms twice that the scaling was happening already when jaime was murdering aerys) to prevent an order the text says he doesnt know about that also contradicts a command that he explicitly gives to his father’s men after hearing incomplete information about the state of the situation. and all this after he finishes committing one of the most significant oathbreakings in history and the most defining act of his life of murdering his own king to prevent a whole city from being nuked. he was left alone as the only kg to guard the red keep. there is a core issue here of him being unable to do all of this alone even if he had all the information. even if he tried to do everything in his power and had all the right suspicions and the knowledge to act he would have been unable to stop it. the text emphasizes this, it emphasizes that he was with the king, slitting his throat, to save a city, instead of being near or at the drawbridge at maegor’s (a knight of the kingsguard is positioned there usually for a reason). jaime was surrounded by the kg, experienced adults, who for two years enabled an erratic and paranoid tyrant to burn people alive, start a war by doing so, rape and abuse his wife, and place caches of wildfire across a city. and all this time these adults have told jaime nothing but “accept this, you swore to obey, stay near him. keep your oath.” but the person that has to be condemned for “incompetence” and “cowardice” (because, yes, based on all this information it is the only ground you have. there is no evidence of malicious intent or apathy of any sort. we know what information he has. we know what he thought during) is him. i dont even blame rhaegar, again, he expected to return “we will talk when i return”, and even finally do what was long overdue and deal with aerys, and he was likely confident he would because of a prophecy that i know concerned an existential threat to humanity, and he did not know what would happen at the trident and that his father would be so paranoid that he would lock elia and her children in the red keep (if you use the argument that jaime should know and think about everything his father may or may not do the very minute he is found murdering the king by the men that tell him, incorrectly, that the place is secured, and he should suspect that his order to spare everybody that yields is already being contradicted by a secret order of his father’s, then this same exact argument can be applied to rhaegar and he should have had a different strategy or a safety net, or been more cautious when it comes to the threat his father represents or straight up just been able to deal with him as if it is that easy. his family were just not allowed to leave with rhaella and viserys (who was named heir, with aegon effectively disinherited) as elia wanted because aerys felt like he was betrayed by dorne and lewyn after the trident (also speaks to what duty rhaegar even expected of jaime when he left. it is present in their last conversation. what threat he is aware of. we see what he tells him. both he and darry expect him to remain with the king at all times and serve as a hostage against tywin and keep aerys in check. they also know he is just one person)

why is jaime even singled out? not other kingsguard who knew he was in the city alone (post the trident or before the trident) and that aerys is a tyrannical threat (but my vows and orders wahh), not pycelle, not tywin, not the men that did the horrid action themselves. in order to absolve rhaegar of any and all responsibility when it comes to naivety or lack of foresight (neither flaw is a detriment to his moral character) u shift the blame and criticize jaime for the exact same thing in an even more absurdly unfair way. you guys want him to be someone this evil and apathetic from the beginning, with his guilt over failure rooted in that, when the whole point is that he stagnated and morally deteriorated due to how cynical all of this made him.

and regarding the argument that he is considered the most skilled kg by these people and so they rightfully think that he should be able to handle the red keep and all these responsibilities alone: “Selmy had never approved of Jaime's presence in his precious Kingsguard. Before the rebellion, the old knight thought him too young and untried; afterward, he had been known to say that the Kingslayer should exchange that white cloak for a black one.”

#idk y i am even linking essays about themes and characterization #i could have saved time #but ig all of it works hand in hand to me

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sunflowersandsapphires · 10 months

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Spend a Little

Wake Up, Chapter 1

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

summary: In an attempt to stop the advances of an unwanted suitor, Matt Murdock accidentally condemns you to being his fake girlfriend.

warnings: swearing, no use of y/n, descriptions of anxiety

a/n: This chapter is a little slow to start because it was my first time writing Matt. This series is going to be sickly sweet so prepare yourselves. Also, most of the legal knowledge/anecdotes comes from my own experience because I work in a pro bono firm :)

w/c: just over 3k

Matt clenched his jaw, a flicker of frustration shooting through him. These NYC Bar events weren’t known for being overly accessible, and Foggy had promised to meet him at the entrance to help him navigate so he wouldn’t reveal his…abilities. Sighing, Matt made his way towards the crowd of people to the left of the ballroom entrance, seemingly finding their table assignments on the papers in front of them. His senses frantically searched for anyone that he recognized, but he didn’t smell Karen’s perfume or hear Foggy’s heartbeat.

As he was internally debating whether to enter the ballroom and simply hope that he could find them, someone at the edge of the crowd in front of him stumbled backwards over his cane. Dropping the cane entirely, he caught her before she could knock them both over in a domino effect.

She scrambled out of his grasp and whirled around. “Oh my gosh I am so sorry, are you alright?” Her voice was sweet, melodic, and echoed gently through his ears.

He chuckled, softly, “I am perfectly fine, I promise. Let me just grab my cane…” Matt suddenly realized she had already bent down to pick up his cane.

“It’s right here, about two inches in front of your right hand.” Heat was pooling in her cheeks, her heart raced with what Matt assumed was a combination of anxiety and embarrassment. “I’m so sorry for bumping you. I get clumsy when I’m nervous.”

Matt smiled at her endearing admission. “It’s alright, no need to apologize. To be honest with you, I’m nervous myself. I thought my partners were meeting me out front.”

“Oh no! These things are already so overwhelming, that would put me on edge too.” She shifted back and forth on her feet as Matt listened intently to her beautiful voice and stuttering heart. “Can I help you find your table, at least?”

“That would be amazing.” Grinning, Matt offered his hand. “Matt Murdock of Nelson, Murdock, and Page.”

You shook his hand, offering your name in return. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Murdock. Oddly enough, I think we are at the same table. Would you like me to lead you there?”

“Please! Lead the way” Matt offered his elbow and you gently took it.

You pulled him around the masses taking immense care to not bump either of you into things. Your pulse fluttered under his arm, beginning to still a slight bit. Eventually, the two of you reached your destination. “We are at our table, there are 8 chairs total, one just slightly to the left of your left hand.”

“Thank you.” Matt murmured in response, donning a grin that Foggy referred to as a crucial part of his “fail-proof Murdock charm.” As he was about to invite you to sit with him, he heard Karen walk up.

“Matt, I am so sorry! I was running late and I couldn’t find a taxi and—“ Karen stopped herself, taking in a breath.

“It’s ok,” Matt assured her, pulling her into a hug. “I had help.” He smiled, turning back to where you were still standing.

Karen held out her hand. “Karen Page of Nelson, Murdock, and Page.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Page.” You two shook hands and you introduced yourself to Karen. After greetings and names had been exchanged, Karen took a seat to Matt’s left.

Before sitting down, Matt reached slightly to the right of his own chair, pulling out the neighboring seat and turning his attention back to you. “Care to join us at this end of the table? I’d love to have the honor of sitting next to the sweetest girl in the room.” He could practically hear Karen rolling her eyes at his boldness.

You chuckled, still slightly nervous but eating up his flirtation attempt nonetheless. “The honor is all mine, counselor.” You sat down, careful not to jostle the table.

As Matt took his seat, he asked, “So, how did you get roped into this event?”

“Well, I am representing the NYC Pro Bono Association but I also have a friend getting an award tonight so it was sort of a 2 birds, one stone sitiuation.”

“Ah, so you really had to go. Who’s your friend?” Karen asked, flagging down the waiter for a flute of champagne.

“Marci Stahl, she’s getting the Association Medal.” Your eyes gleamed with pride as both Matt and Karen gaped in surprise.

“No way. She’s our partner’s—“

“Girlfriend! Yah, I know. Foggy is great by the way, speaks very highly of you both. Quite often.” Matt could hear the smile in your voice as heat rose in your face again. He wondered why briefly but then…

“Aw, you guys! I’m so flattered but, really, you can talk about something other than my wonderful self when I’m not around.” Foggy’s voice brought a chuckle out of Matt. He heard you startle in your seat, your heart rate spiking again, before standing up to give both Marci and Foggy a hug. Karen followed suit.

“Matt, Karen, I see you’ve met my favorite volunteer coordinator in the city.” Marci said, squeezing your shoulder and making you flush more.

“You’ll have to try harder, Marce.” Foggy pinched your cheek, pulling out the chair next to Karen for himself. “I’m afraid she’s the best volunteer coordinator in the state.”

You took your seat next to Matt once more and leaned over to him, slightly. “I was just promoted, they’re way too excited about it.” You informed him and Karen.

“Too excited?!” Foggy feigned a gasp, clutching at his chest. “You have had this position for less than two weeks and you managed to place two of our impossible cases.”

“Wait, that bankruptcy case—you were the miracle worker who placed that shit show?” Matt turned his attention to you, slightly incredulous.

“Well, yah, but I—“ You stammered, clearly less than comfortable with all the attention.

“And!” Marci jumped in, running a hand over your arm. “You helped that client get representation for her damages hearing against Headstrong.” Marci turned to face the rest of the table, “The client got the damages halved. HALVED!”

“No way. Headstrong is the cruelest property manager in Hell’s Kitchen. We thought that case was already decided in their favor!” Karen looked thoroughly impressed.

“Ok if we’re discussing accomplishments, I’m at a table with three attorneys who took down a crime syndicate and another who’s getting an award from the New York Bar tonight. People should be paying to sit with you four.” You laughed, feeling out of place among such big players in the NYC Law community. After all, you didn’t even have your J.D. yet.

“We aren’t done complimenting you, young lady.” Foggy pointed his finger at you accusingly. “We’re all incredibly outspoken so you better prepare yourself. But, I suppose we can toast to my beautiful girlfriend. The ASSOCIATION MEDAL RECIPIENT.” He raised his voice, turning towards the other tables slightly to get everyone’s attention.

“Hear, hear.” Karen laughed, raising her glass. “To Marci!”

The rest of you raised your glasses, clinking them against each other and laughing amongst yourselves before downing the champagne.

“Ok, I don’t know about all of you but I’m going to need something stronger to get through this thing.” Marci sighed, looking for a waiter.

“I could definitely go for a drink.” Matt grumbled, making you laugh. Pretty soon, the emcee started greeting everyone and the five of you settled in for a long evening.

——————————————————————————————————

After the night of your initial, very awkward, meeting, you began to spend more and more time with Matt. Foggy started inviting you out with them for dinner or drinks. Karen suggested that you meet with them once every couple weeks to help refer cases. And Matt, well, he was charming and sweet, often offering to walk you home or help you get a cab. You thoroughly enjoyed your time with all of them, but Matt was some of the best company you’d kept in a while.

It was hard to believe how comfortable you already were with him—yet, here you were, practically pressed against him in a booth at Josie’s.

Foggy, quite inebriated at this point, claps his hands together and gasps at you. “Have you told them about getting blacklisted by Davis and Campbell?”

You groaned. “Foggy, please don’t make me tell this story.”

“Now you have to tell us. What could you have done to lose the support of an entire firm?” Matt scoffs at you, already laughing.

“Oh god” You buried your face in your hands, but began the story nonetheless. “Well, one of the senior attorneys was representing this police officer who had bludgeoned peaceful protestors and put a 17 year old in the ICU. And the asshole was bragging about it, saying how it was a toss away win and the protestors deserved it blah blah blah.”

“Ugh, what a douchebag.” Karen grimaced.

“Right!” You exclaimed, eyes widening. “And this was a cause that my organization had publicly backed and spoken about with his firm! So, naturally, I had to take him down a peg because what was I gonna do—just quietly sit there? I started in on him, telling him that if he wanted our partnership he was going to need to be respectful towards adverse parties, be less cocky about it, be more thoughtful about community movements. But I went a little…too big with it.”

Matt was practically vibrating with anticipation, his hip pressed to yours. “Please tell me you cussed him out.”

“Not exactly…I called him a bootlicker in front of the entire room” You shook your head as the entire table erupted into laughter and cheers. “God, I wish I could say I regretted it but he totally deserved it.”

Matt cackled, Karen gawked in disbelief. “You called him a bootlicker? To his face? But you’re so sweet and quiet!”

“I can be noisy if I need to be.” You smirked.

“That’s a good quality to have.” Matt nearly purrs, sliding his arm around your shoulders. You shove at his chest, laughing.

“That’s not what I meant, you perv.”

He squeezed your shoulder and removed his arm. “I know, I’m teasing you. But, seriously, I’m glad you called him out. You shouldn’t regret that.”

You smiled down at your lap. He gently nudged you with his hip, smiling. You nudged him back, heart beating faster as you watched him wet his lips.

You stared at him for a moment, taking in how handsome he looked in the dim lighting when you noticed the others staring at you.

Foggy smiled, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, did you want us to leave?” He gestured to himself and Karen. Karen laughed and gave you a pointed look.

You moved out of Matt’s space slightly, shaking your head to clear out the thoughts of kissing Matt. You’d barely been friends for three months! It wasn’t worth jeopardizing that.

“Sorry.” You murmured. Matt’s face fell, but he quickly recovered.

“Who wants another round?” Without waiting for the answer, Matt got up and walked briskly towards the bar. You bit your bottom lip, feeling guilty for ruining his night so suddenly.

——————————————————————————————————

The office was buzzing with activity and Matt was starting to get a headache.

“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Alvarez. Is there anything else you need from me today?” He plastered on a smile.

“No, no. Thank you so much Mr. Murdock. You don’t know how much this means to me.” The woman before him sounded like she was holding back tears.

“It’s not a problem. We will get you your benefits back, I’m confident. Have a good day and let us know if you need anything else.” He opened the office door for her as she thanked him profusely.

After Mrs. Alvarez left, Matt let his back fall gently against the door. He sighed roughly, scrubbing a hand down his face. At least he had a minute to think before his next client.

Then, he heard a set of heels clicking down the hallway. A very specific, overwhelming perfume drafted through their floor of the building. Notes of vetiver and blackberry slowly trying to suffocate him.

This was so not what he needed today. He heard the commotion as she entered the room.

“Ms. Snyder! What a pleasure.” Foggy’s heart stuttered. ‘Lie’ Matt chuckled to himself.

“It’s Miss Snyder, Mr. Nelson. Ms. makes me feel like a walking fossil, but I am still woefully single.” She let out a sharp bark of a laugh at her self-deprecating humor.

“Ah, yes. Forgive me. How can I help you?”

Beatrice Snyder was a ruthless partner at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz. She was known for being incredibly unforgiving and for her intolerance of “shenanigans”, as she liked to say. Matt, Foggy, and Karen were always polite, as she could be a fantastic ally if she chose to be and they had heard horror stories of those who got on her bad side. However, it was sometimes difficult to bite their tongues, given that she was cold, uncaring, and a vicious coquette who had set her sights on Matthew Murdock when he was fresh out of law school.

Being a huge flirt himself, you’d think Matt would’ve been comfortable with her advances, but Snyder was not one to take no for an answer and Matt had tired of her seduction attempts ages ago.

He could practically feel her wicked smile as she said “I’ve come to speak with your partner about a business opportunity, of course. Is he available?”

Matt bit back a groan, and left the safety of his office. “Miss Snyder! How lovely for you to visit.” He gave a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Speak of the handsome devil,” Snyder giggled, sounding more like a tortured dolphin than a charming suitor. “And how many times must I ask, Matthew, call me Beatrice.”

“My apologies, Beatrice.” He spat out her name, practically gritting his teeth. “Can we help you?”

“Yes, well, I was hoping you’d accompany me to the upcoming Liberty Gala at Landman and Zach next weekend? I assume you’ve all been invited…”

Matt nodded, “We have, yes.”

“It would be a wonderful opportunity for us to get to know each other, rather intimately.”

Matt’s mind was racing, desperately trying to think of an excuse. “Well, I appreciate the thought, but…you see—I—“

“Matt actually has a girlfriend.” Foggy blurted, smiling hastily. “Yup, Matt has a wonderful, totally real girlfriend.”

“Oh?” Beatrice shifted on her feet, clearly not expecting this news about the famed bachelor of the office.

“Yes, it’s a—uh—recent development.” Matt stated.

“It’s new but they’re quite serious so I’m afraid he cannot attend with you.” Foggy said matter-of-factly.

“I suppose not. What’s your girlfriend’s name? I’ll want to congratulate her on landing such a man.” Beatrice directed the question at Matt, causing him to panic.

And this is where it all went sideways. Because Matt, who usually prides himself on his ability to think quickly, blurted out the name that no one expected. Yours.

“Oh, that little project supervisor from the Pro Bono council?”

“Volunteer coordinator, actually.” Matt corrected, feeling Foggy’s eyes burning a hole through his skull. What exactly had he just done. “And yes, that’s her. My girlfriend.”

“Well…” Beatrice sucked in a breath, clearly fuming. “I’ll see you both next Friday then. I assume she’ll be your plus one?”

“Um—“ Matt hesitated.

“She’ll be there!” Foggy jumped in, unhelpfully.

“Then I will see the two of you at the gala. Do give her my regards.” She didn’t even bother smiling as she spun on her heel and stalked out of their office.

“You are so screwed Murdock.” Foggy shook his head, chuckling breathily. “You are so utterly, completely, devastatingly—“

“Screwed. Yup, I got it.” Matt’ brow furrowed. “Any advice on how to ask someone to be your fake girlfriend at an event with the biggest crowd of bullshit-detectors in the state?”

“No idea, but tell me when you’re going to ask her so I can bring popcorn.”

“You’re the worst.” Matt groaned.

“Yah, well. Can’t say I want to be you right now, dude. But it will be entertaining to watch.”

———————————————————————————————————

Matt wasn’t really sure how he expected you to react. With disgust maybe? Anger? What he definitely did NOT expect, was for you to burst out laughing.

“Wait, wait” you could barely get a word out you were laughing so hard. “This woman has been after you for years and not only have you never pretended to be taken, but the first time you use this excuse, I end up as your fake girlfriend?”

“Yes that about sums it up.” Matt grumbles miserably, Foggy patting his shoulder and popping a few more pieces of popcorn into his mouth.

“Well, I can’t say this is what I expected to hear when Foggy texted me that there was an emergency,” Your laughter faded to small giggles, which lifted Matt’s spirits despite his embarrassment. “But, I guess I’m mostly glad none of you are gravely injured or something.”

“Yah, sorry. It seemed like, very urgent at the time” Foggy rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.

“It’s ok! Though I suppose the real question is, what time are you picking me up?”

“What?” Both Matt and Foggy asked, equally astounded.

“I mean, I can totally meet you there, but I’m thinking it’ll be more believable if we arrive at the gala together.”

“You—you’re not mad?” Matt asked, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“No, of course not!” You chirped, reassuringly.

“And, not only are you not mad that I just lied to a very important woman about us being together and potentially dragged you into some intense dramatics,” Matt continued. “But you’re going to come with me?”

“Yep!”

“As my plus one.”

“Yes, Matt.”

“To pretend to be my girlfriend.”

You laughed again, finding his hand under the table and squeezing it gently, making Matt’s heart skip a beat. “Yes, of course I will. Snyder is a stone cold bitch. If this will help you not be harassed, I’ll absolutely be your fake girlfriend.”

Matt felt his heart sink slightly, but he didn’t have time to reflect on why.

“Have we told you how amazing you are recently because you’re amazing.” Foggy beamed at you, embarrassing you with his praise.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, Foggy’s right. You’re—incredible. Truly.” Matt said, squeezing your hand again.

Your heart pounded, but you smiled. “I’d do anything for you guys. I mean it.” You took a breath, drawing your hand out of Matt’s and clasping your hands together.

“Now, tell me as much about yourself as you can. We’ll need crash courses on each other if we want to be convincing.”

Foggy laughed. “You are both so screwed.”

#matt murdock x reader #Matt Murdock #human disaster matt murdock #matt murdock x you #Daredevil #daredevil fic #Daredevil Netflix #marvel daredevil #marvel's daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #matt murdock fanfic #my writing #mm

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youareunbearable · 3 months

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There is just something about Beyonce's song Daddy Lessons that just makes me think of Maedhros and his Eldest Sister Coded energy

Just Mae, being told he has to take care of his siblings and his mom after Feanor and Nerdanel get into arguments. Growing up too fast and having to learn to fight the family battles way too soon, from learning politics at grandpa Finwe’s knee, to keeping his fracturing family together in Beleriand

Mae watching his father’s mental sanity decay more and more, but still choosing to be filial and supporting this poorly contained wildfire anyways. Feanor leaning more and more on Maedhros before the First Kinslaying, thrusting a sword into his hand, making him train until he becomes the best fighter Valinor has ever seen, all the while Maedhros' stomach is rolling and he has to hold back the nausea from the knowledge that he's being trained to use this sword against his cousins and family one day

Watching Feanor burn and knowing that with his last words he condemned Maedhros and his brothers to fight and to die. There is no way they can really succeed in this task, but they are going to keep throwing themselves at the walls of Morgoth’s fortress anyways and die in the attempts.

Maedhros would be biting back his sneer when his brothers all clamor about the emissary from Morgoth being a trap. Maedhros grew up in politics, of course he knows its a trap. But Feanor trained and raised Maedhros up to take care of his siblings, to be strong for them, fight their battles for them, to grip his sword in hand and fight, especially against those who try and play you

#amber rambles #maedhros #feanor #Silmarillion #lotr #silm #i might make an animation script for this song its just such Mae Doomed From The Start vibes #mr Doomed By The Narrative Before His Name Was Finalized himself

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squirrelwithatophat · 1 year

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Anders and the Blooming Rose

It’s a fairly minor part of his character, but I find it hilarious that Anders, "The Healer” of Darktown, really does not like the local brothel. If you take him with you while purchasing “services” from Madame Lusine, you get this reaction...

“You’re not this desperate, I hope. I treat a lot of these customers in my clinic.”

Then if you ignore the warning and do it anyways (you know, because Hawke)…

Anders: rivalry +5

It’s not a moral condemnation, a complaint about wasting time (à la Beth or Carver), or a vague expression of disgust (of the sort Fenris or Merrill reply with) — Anders, the closest in-universe equivalent to a doctor, is warning the player-character away from soliciting prostitutes on health grounds.

One interesting aspect of Dragon Age II is that it contains many more specific references to disease — which makes sense, given the medieval urban setting, where the top causes of mortality would realistically be infectious disease. Gamlen explicitly refers to his parents dying of “cholera,” a highly lethal (even today, untreated cholera has a case fatality rate of up to 50%) water-borne illness, and the water supply in Lowtown is described as dangerously contaminated (Hawke can refuse to drink it “even on a dare,” Merrill refers to something “twitching” in the water even after boiling it). A random NPC asking Lirene about “The Healer” complains, “I can't get my brother off the boat. The grippe's [i.e., the flu] got him bad.” Then there are the multiple references to unspecified STIs, all of which come from (or at least are associated with) Anders.

There’s an amusing line from Anders upon entering the Blooming Rose for the first time (usually but not necessarily during Enemies Among Us in Act 1):

“If someone tries to hire me again, I’m leaving.”

Now, some fans seem to read this as a claim that the Blooming Rose has tried to hire him as a sex worker, but I believe there’s a more plausible interpretation here. (Frankly, I have difficulty imagining that a brothel would be obsessed to the point of harassment with recruiting as their newest rent boy a man in his mid-30’s — and one who, need I remind you, lives in a mine shaft connected to a sewer and notorious for its toxic fumes, dumping of rotting corpses, and disease outbreaks. And no offense to any Andersmancer reading this, but is he really that good-looking?).

Most likely, the brothel is looking to hire an in-house physician (or Thedosian equivalent). Anders is referred to curing STIs and providing other reproductive care. In introducing him, Lirene says, “He's closed their wounds, delivered their children.” One of patients in her shop can be heard crying out, “My mother's in labor! The baby's come early. Can anyone help her?” To which Lirene replies, “I'll send word to the healer.” (Anders may have been delivering babies back in the Circle as well, considering that in MoTA, he says, “At the Circle, any accidental babies are taken away before the mother even sees them.” This could, however, simply be common knowledge among Circle mages). It’s also implied by Wynne that Circle mages practice contraception: “Such births [in the Circle] are seldom, as there are ways to prevent it, but it does happen.” Moreover, Anders appears to be the only person in Kirkwall willing and able to provide these medical services. There are references to useless quacks (e.g., “some purveyor of hensbane and leeches”), but it’s acknowledged in-universe that the only effective healing comes from mages. In DAI, the Inquisitor can express surprise at the presence of a “mundane” (non-mage) surgeon, who goes on to insist that such non-magical methods will be developed in the future, all of which further reinforces the (in-universe) social/cultural equation of healer as mage. Mage healers only appear to be let out of the Circle on rare occasions to treat members of the nobility, but ordinary people don’t receive such consideration. Even the viscount’s seneschal has to seek out Anders for help. In DAI, Cullen casually moons the idea of “healers’ clinics with templar support” (among other potential “opportunities to work outside the Circle”) as a totally novel solution to mage “resentment” over confinement. The Chantry thus far wasn’t willing to release mages to treat sick commoners even with phylacteries to deter escapes and Templar overseers breathing down their necks the entire time; in fact, they were rather reluctant to let out even a handful of senior mages to fight alongside the king against the Blight, something which threatened everyone’s lives fairly equally (and even then couldn’t resist the temptation to make the mages feel as unwelcome as possible). “The Healer of Darktown” was well-known to illicitly (that is, in defiance of Chantry restrictions) provide health care for free to the masses, and this service not surprisingly had earned him quite the number of admirers and defenders. Lirene resists being threatened for information about him by saying, “Any Fereldan in the city would lay down his life for the healer, after what he's done for us,” and a mob of Ferelden refugees even prepare to attack the heavily-armed party out of fear that the latter might harm him or report him to the Templars. His Act 2 Codex likewise reads: “When not with the Champion, he spends his time among the Fereldan refugees in Darktown, healing their ills and counting on their loyalty to protect him from curious templars.” Should it be a surprise then that a private business might be interested in his skills, especially when disease is threatening their bottom line and injuring customers?

In the game, we actually see two frequent patrons of the Blooming Rose end up in Anders’s clinic for treatment.

Dissent (Act 2), if Isabela has been left behind:

Anders: ...don't come running to me next time you pick up one of these diseases.

Isabela: Isn't that the point of magic?

Hawke: I don't want to know.

Dissent (Act 2), if Isabela is in the party:

Seneschal Bran: And that will, ah, stop the itch?

Anders: Yes. Though I would stay away from women you meet in the port. Pirates tend to... dock in unsavory places.

Isabela: I heard that!

Anders: Just use the salve if it comes back.

This is probably also what Isabela is referring to in the opening to Speak to Fenris (Act 2):

Isabela: So the seneschal's tax collector won't be coming around again, like you asked. Funny story.

Fenris: I'll pass, but thank you for the help.

Isabela: Spoilsport.

Seneschal Bran appears to be a regular with a particular fondness for Serendipity, a drag queen (or transfemme?) and one of the highest-paid workers at the Blooming Rose, whose gender nonconformity is generally Played for Laughs. Bran can be seen on a “date” with her at Duke Prosper’s party during Mark of the Assassin, and Serendipity can later be heard commenting, “I haven't seen the seneschal much lately. Don't tell me the man's gone religious” (to which someone responds, “No, he just keeps terrible hours now”).

Isabela, of course, talks about sex and her enjoyment of brothels (including the Blooming Rose) quite frequently. In Dragon Age Origins, we meet her dueling two men at The Pearl (Denerim’s main brothel), and she can (in)famously be talked into a threesome or foursome with the Warden and their LI, although in that game it was unclear whether she was hiring prostitutes or simply ended up there in the course of searching for dueling partners (given that the building had been occupied by mercenaries, and one of the optional quests in Denerim is to clear The Pearl of disruptive mercenaries on behalf of the city guard) or following/checking on her crewmen. In DA2, it is confirmed that she was going to The Pearl for sex, and Anders remarks, “You used to really like that girl with the griffon tattoos, right?” to which Isabela replies with the name “The Lay Warden.”

(For now, I’ll just ignore the unfortunate implications of Bioware depicting a promiscuous black woman repeatedly contracting STIs and unrepentantly spreading them to white men for blackmail purposes. But yeah, yikes).

Historically, the emergence of STIs as a major social problem has been associated with urbanization and military mobilizations — basically, situations in which large numbers of individuals had opportunities for unprotected sex, especially with multiple partners, away from the usual social control mechanisms such as cockblocking parents (and virtually all sex was unprotected until latex condoms began to be mass-produced in the 1920s-30s). Without the safety measures we have in place in licensed brothels today (e.g., condom requirements, regular STI testing), brothels and red light districts were superspreader bonanzas, and perhaps unsurprisingly, medical professionals tended to take a rather dim view of them, to put it mildly. Modern readers often historical interpret opposition to brothels and camp followers (in the military) on the part of medical and public health authorities as expressions of prudery, religious conservatism, and/or misogyny, and to be frank, they very often were. Yet at the same time, in the pre-condom and pre-antibiotic era, STIs represented a major public health burden and cause of disability, disfigurement, infertility, and premature death, and there few practical measures beyond simply urging everyone to keep their pants on (which worked about as well as one might expect).

Circling back to Anders, it's notable that he takes a much more negative view of sex in the second game than in Awakening, during which he seemed eager to hump anything that moved. This could at least in part reflect the influence of Justice, who seems to regard anything other than fighting for justice and engaging in public service to be "selfish" and even slothful (as in demon-y sloth). Or simple aging and maturity. Or, on a meta level, it could be an odd re-characterization due to the change in writer. But I like to think that his newfound discomfort with no-strings-attached boning is an unfortunate side effect of being a charity doctor working into the late hours to accommodate an endless stream of dick wart patients. It's already a shame that his clinic and service for the poor is relegated to such a background element, especially given the role such work would realistically play in forming a person's character. In terms of character development, it would have been interesting to explore how his work in the clinic could itself had a radicalizing effect — after all, it would bring him face-to-face with the tragic consequences of Chantry policy on mundanes (rather than just mages) as well as demonstrate magic’s contribution to the greater good on a daily basis. But this angle unfortunately never comes up in-universe.

TL;DR What I'm actually saying is that the real tragedy of Anders's character arc is the profound decrease in sluttiness between the two games.

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miraculouscriticismshub · 6 months

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MLB writer's math be like...

ML writer's math is calling Chloe stans r*pist defenders on Twitter for defending Chloe while being silent about the fact that there are some extreme Felix stans who defend Felix's harassment towards LB

ML writer's math is saying Audrey's abuse doesn't excuse Chloe's horrid actions but proceeds to say Felix did nothing wrong and that his actions SHOULD be excused because his dad abused him, therefore making everything Colt's fault

ML writer's math is saying Lukloe is a toxic ship because it adopts the whole good boy fixing the bad girl trope which they say is unhealthy because Luka shouldn't carry the burden of being Chloe's therapist but proceed to make Feligami canon despite it being the exact same concept but reversed. Felix before Kagami was an anti-hero but after they got together, he is redeemed implying Kagami "fixed him"

ML writer's Math is condemning Colt Fathom for abusing and controlling his son and telling us to feel bad for Felix but when Audrey does the same thing to Chloe in Revolution and I repeat "I'm going to take control of your life again" she isn't held accountable as well and this abusive behaviour is treated as punishment and we shouldn't be feeling bad for her. (Disclaimer: NOT defending Colt because both are awful parents and both are terrible but there is a double standard going on. Felix and Chloe both deserve better parents)

ML writer's Math is calling out Felix's father for the abusive scum he is and recognising him as an abuser but refusing to give similar treatment to Gabriel and Andre who despite not being as bad as Colt when it comes to parenting are still rubbish parents. Why is Colt one of the only parents in the show to be held accountable?

ML writer's math (mainly TA) is being quick to slander some toxic Chloe/Lila stans for their problematic behaviour but when some toxic Maribug/Adrichat/Adrienette have also shown signs of toxic behaviour (e.g what happened to the Lila girl) Thomas Astruc stayed Silent on the matter. Surely a serious matter such as taking one's life should've been addressed by him since he sees himself as an activist and good person on Twitter. He should've known about it since the news of the Lila fan was common knowledge among the fanbase (even Cyrus the Great made a video about this)

Disclaimer : These are just common double standards I've seen in the writing and by TA. Comment more double standards if you know any. Please stay respectful when commenting

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ceilidhtransing · 7 months

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Here to once again sing the praises of Duolingo (and go on a long ramble about language learning)

I see a fair bit of criticism of Duo that essentially begins and ends with “Duolingo alone won't make you fluent”, stated as if it's obvious that this point alone is enough to totally condemn the app.

The thing is, “Duolingo alone won't make you fluent” is true*, but also a) pretty obvious to most dedicated language learners and b) not nearly enough to automatically render Duolingo not worth using.

[*It's also worth pointing out that “fluency” isn't really a single coherent concept: people can have radically different fluency levels across, for example, reading and speaking; different levels of proficiency can count as “fluent” in different settings depending on the needs of that setting; and not everyone learning a language is even aiming for “fluency” in the first place - though this also leads into a huge can of worms about the somewhat prevalent idea that fluency is the only worthwhile goal for learners and if you're not aiming to be fluent then it's a waste of time, but that's a discussion for another day.]

The value of Duolingo varies a lot by course, but my experience is that even though Duolingo alone won't “make you fluent”, the bigger, better-developed courses can take you a long way. Yes, obviously not to C2 “basically a native speaker” level, but pretty far. And that's personally where I find the app's real value: giving enough of a grounding in a language that other learning materials - short stories, podcasts, conversation groups, etc - become accessible. Of course Duolingo alone isn't going to make you fluent, but for a lot of learners it's an irreplaceable early tool on their journey towards proficiency.

Early on, when your level of knowledge of a language is zero or near-zero, so much of the struggle of learning is a feeling of total overwhelm as you try to figure out how to learn and find a method you'll stick to. Independent learning can feel like walking blindly through a maze of disparate and sometimes contradictory resources, some on grammar, some on vocab, some that say “start speaking immediately!”, some that say “get to grips with these grammar foundations before even trying to speak!”, some that insist there's no replacement for immersion, some that argue that immersion is like being thrown in the deep end and expecting yourself to swim, and this is where so many people burn themselves out. You can't read short stories or listen to podcasts when you know literally nothing of a language, and if you use a random unstructured assortment of materials then you'll probably end up learning grammar concepts in a very random and disconnected and confusing way. Duolingo bridges that early gap between “zero proficiency” and “some proficiency”, providing a structure that says “just keep doing this and you will watch your ability grow”.

Really, I think it's in precisely what “doing this” means that the disagreement arises. It's a very YMMV app, depending on how each person uses it. Someone using Duolingo for >30 minutes a day, making rapid and intense progress through their course, and seeking out alternative sources to clarify bits of grammar that they're confused by is having such a different experience from someone who does one lesson a day just to keep a streak going. Of course someone doing the latter isn't going to be “made fluent” that way - because there is no language-learning material on earth that is going to produce genuine progress with that little time and attention (and frankly there is no material on earth that is a 100% comprehensive standalone course from beginner to fluent and doesn't require any supplementation). Regardless of which material you're using - Duolingo, Babbel, Rosetta Stone, LanguagePod101, a YouTube series, a university course, a textbook, or any of the many other miscellaneous methods - time and attention is basically what it comes down to, and personally, in the beginner-to-intermediate stages of language learning, I've found Duolingo to have a pretty good ratio of “time and attention” to “language progress”.

Ultimately, Duo can be excellent at holding your hand through those early months of language learning, getting you to a point where you don't use “Duolingo alone”, because you now have enough confidence and grounding to supplement with things like short stories and podcasts and conversation partners - things that you would have found unbelievably daunting at the beginning, but that are now accessible to you thanks to a free app that guides you through a clear learning structure. I think that's great.

Zu lang, ich habe nicht gelesen - vielleicht bin ich noch nicht fließend, aber ich kann viel mehr mit Duo als ohne Duo sprechen :)

#duolingo #languages #language learning #learning languages #langblr #germanblr #german #learning german #linguistics #my posts

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 6 months

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Dearest Rollo, if you meet the Righteous Judge himself in person, what would you do?

DISCLAIMER: Whatever I write here does NOT reflect my own opinions about Frollo or any of the beliefs he held. I strongly disagree with and condemn what he stands for. In this post, I am creating through the viewpoint of a character that has a warped understanding of what Frollo was truly like, and thus I am using this perspective to inform my creative writing.

Like Fire, Hellfire.

A spark lit in Rollo's dark, gloomy eyes. His thin lips curved into a semblance of a smile--too small to be considered in full, but enough to register as different from the null expression he typically showed the world.

"My, what a thoughtful inquiry," he mused softly, uncharacteristically enthralled. "How kind of you to ask."

Rollo ran a finger across the red jewel set in his ring. Contemplative. "Were I to be graced with the presence of such a venerable man... Fufufu. I would humbly confess my admiration, confide that I strive each day to live up to his ideals. More importantly, I would like to discuss a great many things with him. Someone of his stature and moral compass would no doubt have a great deal of wisdom to share."

His eyes shone fondly with a newfound fire. Warmth crept into his voice, kindling a controlled excitement.

"I would invite him to walk alongside me in the City of Flowers," Rollo continued. "Surely he would be proud to gaze upon the place he has spent so long protecting and what it has blossomed into. The people prosperous, businesses booming, the peaceful song of the bells every morning, afternoon, and night..."

It was odd, you thought to yourself, how the same person who was once cackling about destroying all mages and pulling trap door levers was now quietly fanboying. I guess we all that capacity in us.

"We would stop at a bakery I frequent, perhaps share a light meal there. Bread, cheese, and grape juice. It would be a golden opportunity to become acquainted with him on a more personal level. Men allow for their true selves to shine over shared food. Beyond history and law, what I wish to discuss with him most of all is..."

Rollo found himself hesitating.

In his imagination, he was seated before the famed figure, prostrating himself. The Righteous Judge silently stared down at him. Watching, listening.

The busy bakery faded away to nothingness, and the table assumed the form of a confessional booth. It was him and the Righteous Judge, parishioner and pastor.

"Sir, I implore you. Please advise me. Guide me. Grant me your insight," Rollo begged. "Truthfully, I am... lost. I thought what I was doing was correct. That it was just. In his name, I dedicated myself to this cause, the crusade against dastardly mages--but I was not able to recognize those ambitions to the fullest."

Tears pricked his vision then. The stony-faced judge said nothing, did nothing.

"Now I am left with only the ashes and cinders of that broken dream, questioning what is right and what is wrong. I fear that my faith is wavering, that those vile villains have somehow tainted my soul."

His voice cracked like delicate glass.

"Your judgment is always absolute yet fair. Tell me then. What must I do to attain salvation? To soothe the fire that crawls and burns under my skin? To finally be at peace...?"

Finally, the judge's mouth moved, Rollo couldn't make out the answer. He was forbidden from that knowledge.

It was all meaningless noise. Garbage sounds. Nonsense. An answer, obscured.

Rollo closed his eyes and held his tongue. A sharp intake of breath. Then--

"... Well, you needn't know the details."

"Whaaat?!" you cried, pouting. "You're seriously going to leave me off with a cliffhanger like that? You were just getting to the juiciest part!!"

"I've already said enough. No, perhaps I've said too much."

"Keep talking!! I wanted to hear the rest of it!!"

Rollo folded his arms. "You already received quite the sufficient response. To ask more of me would be to cave to your greed. Be grateful that I was in a good enough mood to entertain the question."

#twst #twisted wonderland #Rollo Flamme #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #disney twisted wonderland #Rollo at the Writing Desk #Frollo #Reader #self insert

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jackactuallywrites · 2 months

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Spirits and Ghosts

Warning: I’m putting this at the top because this fic is pretty dark! Alcoholism, referenced suicide, Soap is dead, Ghost is completely broken, mildly dubious consent cause you’re both drunk shagging

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x female reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: Everyone is devastated after Soap’s death, most of all Ghost. He knows you know he’s coping with alcohol, and comes to talk to you, he doesn’t know that you’re drinking too

Notes: I just love a bit of hurt/comfort after all the mushy fluff

Word Count: 3,270

ao3 link

Special thanks: @xxven ily

There was a palpable heaviness hanging over the base with the knowledge that one of your own was gone. You’d never had the pleasure of truly befriending Soap, yet you still felt his absence, a hole in the worn fabric that made up the base. His jokes, his laughter, that obnoxious Scottish accent that echoed down the halls, something you’d found irritating then, but now you would have given anything to hear it one last time.

None amongst you felt that loss more keenly than Ghost.

You were intel, so it was in your job description to keep watch, not only on whoever the government had designated as the enemy but on your own, digging into your comrade's personal lives and finding out every last little secret that could possibly be used against them. Skeletons in the closet didn’t even come close to describing the graveyard in Ghost’s past. Supposedly, he was numb to the trauma, empty of every human emotion after everything he’d been through, but you’d been watching him. There had been something motivating that man, some ironclad little spark at the centre of his being, yet it had died with Soap.

Never once before had his moniker been so accurate. The man truly was haunting the base, a ghoulish spectre wandering the halls at night, his eyes dead and cold, his body animated by something unknown. At least, that was until you took it upon yourself to break into Ghost’s room.

Alcohol.

That was what was motivating the man to keep going, a growing pile of spirits underneath his bed. It was the perfect crime; nobody would ever get close enough to the man to be able to smell his breath; even if they did, he wore a mask, the alcohol-tinted air smothered by a layer of fabric and resin. You knew that Price and Gaz kept an eye on the man, but how close could they truly get to him? Even by military standards, Ghost was closed off. So, you came in. Covert amongst the covert, supposedly for the ‘good of the task force’, though yet again you were questioning it. What good would come of reporting Ghost? You’d read his psych evals; the man was not one for therapy, and understandably so, meaning he would be discharged honourably if he was lucky, but you knew how that story ended. At the end of a rope.

The laptop in your office mocked you with its bright glow, lighting up your dismal notes of alcoholism and trauma, but you couldn’t bring yourself to transfer the notes into his official documents just yet. A man’s life was on the line, and this was not something you took lightly. What you needed was your routine.

It was simple enough; you’d get yourself a nice cold lemonade and then put in enough vodka to drown a small animal, though never enough to completely rid you of your conscience and allow yourself to be engulfed by everything you forced down. Considering you were planning on writing up Ghost for a drinking problem, it felt hypocritical, but everything you did was. Spying on your own soldiers to keep them safe. The lines were already blurred, no matter how straight you tried to make them.

Your room was a perfect prison for you, your laptop safely stored in the securely locked server rooms, only accessible by a sober you the next day. For now, it was just you and your notes, the ones that would be responsible for condemning a man. The words felt heavy on your heart as you flicked through your notepad, your mind already swimming with alcohol as you reread what you’d written of Ghost, of his pain, his guilt, his trauma. He was a good man, from what you could tell, but there was no room for empathy. You had to do what was best for the task force.

When you heard the knock at the door, you felt your soul leave your body. You switched up your drinking room every time, never using the same one twice, always having your office as where you would be found after hours. Of course, you weren’t stupid enough to believe that you yourself weren’t watched, but you knew how and where they’d monitor you, and you’d gone out of your way to avoid it. Or so you’d thought. Could you have messed up? No, you’d done everything perfectly. This was just some horrible coincidence.

Another knock at the door, firmer though still quiet, was enough to rid you of that thought. Someone was out there, someone who knew you were in that room. Your sidearm was never far from your hand, and you kept it in hand as you approached the door, hoping that your dishevelled appearance would be put down to being roused from an early night’s sleep rather than from an empty bottle. Professional. Courteous. That’s all you had to be for the next minute. You could do that.

You might have been able to if it wasn’t Ghost on the other side of the door—Ghost, whose fate lay in your hands, fragile and delicate like a baby bird. He made no attempt at upholding any sort of professional courtesy himself as he pushed past you into the small room you’d taken as sleeping quarters that night.

“I know.” His tired voice brokered no disagreement, but you still made an effort. “Know what?” He sunk onto your bed, precariously close to your stash of alcohol, resting his forearms on his thighs, his eyes firmly on you, “I know you know everything.” You remained quiet, as was always best in this situation, allowing Ghost to reveal how much he knew. “Don’t.” He knew, of course, he knew, he’d been briefed on those exact tactics. You looked back at him, trying to be resolute though your head was swimming, “I’m just doing my job, Lieutenant. As you do yours.” He scoffed, but you pressed on, “It’s for the good of the team, Riley. You know that.” “There is no team without Soap.” He was a man in pain, in distress, yet he was too close. You couldn’t have him in here, not where your secrets unravelled. “Go sleep it off, Lieutenant.”

For a moment, it seemed like you’d escaped closer scrutiny by the skin of your teeth, but Ghost’s eyes had shifted to the small gap in between the bed and the end table, where you’d stashed the bottle, having given up on the charade of diluting it with lemonade quite some time ago. His eyes slowly returned to you, and you felt him examine you, not just your physical appearance but your posture, the slight haziness in your eyes you’d tried to play off as exhaustion.

“Are you drunk?”

There was no doubting the absolute incredulity in his voice, and you knew you’d been caught. Honesty, that was your best policy now, mixed in with a heavy dose of untruths. “I’m off duty.” “I know your schedule.” “Unscheduled leave.” He pushed up from the bed and crossed the room to you, trapping you between him and the door, glowering down at you. “Liar.” A different tactic was needed now, and you tried to look earnest, “The death of Soap-“ He didn’t let you finish, placing his hand over your mouth to silence you, his glove soft against your skin, “Don’t you fucking dare.” You could feel how precarious your situation was now. Ghost would never hurt you; you knew that much from his files, but he might report you. You could take him down, but you’d be sentencing yourself to go down with him.

After a moment, Ghost removed his hand from your mouth, folding his arms across his chest and glaring down at you, allowing you the freedom to explain yourself as though there was anything non-incriminating you could say. You hesitated momentarily before deciding there was no other way out of this. “I’m drunk.” He narrowed his eyes at you, “I could report you.” He looked you over, no doubt weighing his options, so you reminded him, “So could I.“

For a moment, the silence seemed to stretch out into eternity between you, both considering the mutually assured destruction you could unleash. Ghost was the first to deflate, sinking back onto your bed and reaching over to grab the bottle of vodka. He held it up to you in a mock toast, his voice dark, “Here’s to the best and the brightest of the forces.” You relaxed a little, taking the bottle from him. “There’s another bottle in the drawer.” He didn’t need telling twice, pulling the drawer open and taking out the second bottle, unscrewing it as he pulled off his mask and balaclava. You’d read about his face, but seeing it was something else. He was handsome, even with the crooked nose, the untidy greying stubble and the heavy purple bags under each eye. You held out your bottle to his, “Here’s to mutually assured destruction.” His voice was soft as he clinked his bottle against yours, but you could still hear the name on his lips. “To Soap.”

Nothing compared to the blissful feeling of alcohol carrying you away from your worries. Your entire body felt light, slightly tingly, as if there was a slight lag between your mind and your limbs. It was a delightful feeling, the feel of the carpet underneath your fingers, and you stretched out your hands, exploring the new textures that brushed against your skin, stroking along the fabric and noting the bump of the stitches.

“That’s my leg you’re stroking.”

Ghost’s voice was soft, and you laughed, moving your hand away from his leg, “Sorry, sorry.” You cracked open an eye to see him leaning his back against the bedframe with his eyes still closed, a slight smile on his lips, “I don’t mind. S’nice.” The lines between professional and person were already beyond blurry and had been since the very first sip of alcohol, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You returned your hand to his thigh, exploring the waterproofed fabric and how your fingers slid over it smoothly, feeling the ridges of the pockets and then the coarse material of his belt. He shifted, laying his arm on the bed frame behind you, his forearm draping over your shoulder, and you allowed yourself to lean into his chest, enjoying the close contact.

It was obvious to you where things were going; no matter how slowly they were progressing, the end result would undeniably be the same. You shifted away from him, using every last ounce of your self-control to put some distance between you, placing your hands in your lap. “Ghost. We can’t- I can’t. It would be wrong of me.” He reached out for your face, his gloved fingers soft against your cheek as he gently turned you toward him, “I just want to feel good again.” You could see the earnestness in his face but also the pain and exhaustion in his eyes, the undeniable sorrow that lingered. At the end of a day like this, feeling good was all you wanted, too.

Ghost seemed to feel your resistance fading away, his hand shifting from your cheek down, his fingers stroking over your jaw and then around to the back of your neck. His grip was gentle but quietly insistent as he pulled you toward him, your boundaries slipping as you gave in, letting your hands reach out to grab his jumper and pull him closer to you, his lips crashing against yours, firm and desperate, his fingers sliding up into your hair, holding you tightly against him.

A single kiss was all it took to destroy the facade of professionalism entirely.

Ghost wasted no time, breaking the kiss to take his jumper off, revealing the plain green T-shirt underneath, and you eagerly hooked your fingers underneath the hem to take it off for him. He raised his arms to allow you to strip him, waiting for you to take his t-shirt off before he started on yours, easily pulling it off of you and then gently pushing you back onto the carpet, using his knee to nudge your legs apart and then wrapping them around his waist as he leaned down to kiss you again, using his arm to brace himself so he didn’t crush you underneath him.

You knew what you were doing was wrong, but he felt too good against you, one hand tangling in your hair, his lips moving down your neck, sucking and biting at your skin, the other hand pulling your hips against him as he ground into you. The alcohol heightened the pleasure in your skin, and you let out a soft sigh, allowing yourself to become lost in the sensation. Even the slightest sign of pleasure from you spurred Ghost on, and he leant back from you, leaving you panting on the floor as his hands darted down to your trousers, swiftly unbuckling your belt and button and then yanking the zipper down, tugging your trousers off and tossing them to the side.

As he began undoing his own belt, you took a moment to appreciate how attractive the man was, the way the muscles in his arms bulged as he fumbled with the buckle, the black tattoos that wrapped around his forearm, the hungry look in his pale eyes as he took in the sight of your body, the dark blond hair that trailed down his stomach. He undid his trousers, pushing his boxers down, his cock finally springing free. You could feel your heart skip a beat at the sight of him, how desperate he was for you, and you bit your lip in anticipation, feeling the butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Ghost didn’t bother to take his trousers completely off, already leaning down to tug your pants off, sliding them over your legs and throwing them aside. He gripped your thigh as he positioned himself, grinding himself into you to coat as much of himself as he could in your wetness before he slowly pushed into you, the pressure at your entrance building before he slowly began to sink into you, a throaty growl emanating from his throat as he buried himself inside you. You knew you should have been more careful; you should have thought of protection, but all you cared about was how he felt against you, his hand moving to your thigh to hold you in place as he thrust into you, angling your hips so he rubbed up against that perfect spot inside you.

Without warning, he shifted back to pull you on top of him, positioning you in his lap, placing his hand on your hip and grinding you against him. His other hand reached up to cup your face, forcing you to look up into his eyes, his own wide and desperate. He rubbed his thumb over your cheek, his other hand grabbing your ass as he rocked you against him, his voice throaty as he rested his forehead against yours, “You feel so fucking good.” His hand moved from your ass and grabbed your hand, pushing it down between your bodies, his voice desperate and pleading, “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good for me.” You weren’t one to deny yourself pleasure, so you did as ordered, pushing your hand between your bodies and beginning to rub circles around your clit, feeling that familiar pressure build in your core, shifting your hips against him to angle him more perfectly, and he rubbed his thumb over your cheek, “Just like that, sweetheart, come on.” He let you control the rhythm as you rocked against him, resting his hand on the small of your back, his voice strained, “Come on, darlin’, come for me.”

Your body couldn’t hold on for longer, your rhythm starting to stutter as you pushed down on him hard, trying to get him as deep as possible as you finished, your nails digging into his shoulders as he held you closely against him, whispering soft words of encouragement into your ear, “Just like that, sweetheart, just like that.” You let your head fall forward onto his chest as you rode out the last sparks of pleasure, and he wrapped his arm around your back, holding you against him, stroking your hair with his other hand.

Ghost was still underneath you, seemingly content to just have your pleasure, but you weren’t finished just yet. You shifted on top of him so you were straddling his lap, gently placing your hands in the centre of his chest and pushing him insistently. He looked at you questioningly, but he allowed you to lay him flat on his back, his hands sliding down your back and to your waist, allowing you to take control. You could feel the hesitance in his touch, and you began to rock your hips back and forth, feeling how his hands began to tighten on your waist, his head falling back onto the carpet, and his jaw clenching as he thrust up into you. You found your rhythm quickly enough, balancing on your knees as you rode him, feeling that familiar tightness inside you as he hit you just right, everything still sensitive from your first climax, your voice a breathy whisper as you slid up and down, “Fuck, Ghost.”

“Simon, it’s Simon.” His voice was tight, as were his fingers on your waist, beginning to pull you down onto him more forcefully, “Say my name.” You couldn’t help but reach back down to rub yourself again, feeling everything tingle and tense, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried to keep the rhythm just right, “Fucking hell, Simon.”

The simple utterance of his name seemed to bewitch him, and he let out a deep groan, gripping onto your hipbones as he began slamming up into you, yanking you down to meet him every time, almost lifting you off his cock entirely before he buried it back inside you. You could see the frantic desperation in his movements and feel the tightness in his legs as his body began to tense up, but he slowed, panting out in short, heavy breaths, “I’m close, darlin’, I should probably-“ Both alcohol and arousal were clouding your better senses, and you dug your nails into his chest as you ground yourself against him, right on the verge of finishing yourself, the nail in the coffin of any intelligence, “Come in me, Simon.”

Ghost needed little encouragement, completely lost in the sensation of you finishing around him again, and he thrust forcefully inside you before sitting up and pushing you down to the floor once again, pulling your legs tightly around his hips as he fucked you hard, pounding into you fiercely, the carpet harsh against your back as he thrust deep into you one final time, growling out a throaty, “Fuck,” as he finished.

Not anything about your decisions had been smart, from fucking Ghost to letting him finish inside you, but you just couldn’t summon the energy to care anymore. He felt too good, and you’d needed it; you’d needed an excuse to break free of the constraints. He collapsed to your side as he pulled out, yet brought you with him into a tight hug, burying his head in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair as his heart slowed. Nothing was said, but nothing needed to be said, and you simply enjoyed the closeness, resting your head against his chest, the dark thoughts in your head blissfully silenced.

#jack writes #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod fic #simon ghost x reader

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awryval · 2 months

Text

death of an author, reclamation, and you

"We never are what we intend, or invent 'Cause I make little lies and then I pull them apart Think something dark's living down in my heart And if I wanted to die before I got old I should've started some years ago digging that hole"

Brand New. "At the Bottom." Daisy, 2009.

Brand New was among one of my favorite bands in high school, and I still listen to them today. Their music is important to me and shaped a big part of who I am. Their lyrics about being tortured, burnt-out, and choking on the weight of your own self-perceived flaws are relatable! Their compositions ooze with a level of self-hatred that can only be genuine. It's utterly depressing, and I adore it!

That's not not the full story, though. Jesse Lacey, the vocalist of Brand New, is a sexual predator. This informs everything about how the music of Brand New is. It's self-loathing for a very good reason. I love Brand New. I condemn Jesse Lacey. These two statements coexist. I used to be a part of the /r/brandnew subreddit, and when the allegations against Jesse Lacey came out in 2017, many redditors of that sub were quick to claim "death of the author." After all, the band had broken up immediately after the news broke, and they had also cancelled their tours. Currently, the people using that subreddit mostly talk about buying old BN merchandise and discuss what their favorite concert memories were. Jesse Lacey himself confirmed that the allegations against him were true, so there isn't much debate to be had. The subreddit serves as a monument for fans who still enjoy the music, and as a platform to speak about it with like-minded fans.

In my opinion, claiming "death of an author" is a slippery slope. We can't always claim that Miku is the creator of Minecraft. But often, we see that that is the response people have when a creator is outed to be problematic; "I still like the thing So-and-So made, so I will ignore that the creator exists!" The reason that this worked for Miku Minecraft is because, by the time that Notch was publicly making transphobic comments, he did not own Minecraft anymore. The joke is quite literally that he does not own the thing that people like. He sold it to Microsoft, so he doesn't get royalties from it anymore. You can play Minecraft devoid of supporting its original creator. This joke works so well because it is an actual case of the death of an author! That's great and all for Minecraft, but what about other instances? What happens when we claim "death of the creator" erroneously? And why are we so obsessed with this concept anyway?

So like, back to Brand New... they released their last album, Science Fiction, back in August 2017. The allegations came out later that same year. I own all of Brand New's discography physically, including their last release. I bought most of it off eBay when I was 15. I was not supporting them post-allegations. But that leaves me with a lingering question- what do I do with all these CDs that I still very much enjoy the music of? From how I see it, there are two firm camps on this topic:

Camp 1: You know about Lacey's crimes now and his music cannot be separated from his actions. Solution: Throw your CDs away.

Camp 2: It's something you bought without knowledge of Lacey's crimes, so you should enjoy it anyway. Death of an author! Solution: Continue as usual.

I'm not fond of either of these answers. They come off as too polarized for a situation that is the entire Pantone swatch library of grays. "But, how are there any shades of gray when its clear that Jesse Lacey is in the wrong?" I want to provide some counter questions for you to think about:

What about the other people in the band? You might not be directly supporting the sexual predator anymore, but there are other victims here too- effectively his band mates lost their jobs overnight. (Another example would be LOSTPROPHETS)

Is it feasible to destroy each object you own because it was created under problematic circumstances? When or when isn't this the case? Does it apply to your cup of coffee? Does it apply to the clothes you wear? What about any product with palm oil in it? What about the hardware in your computer? If you look into any company, you're going to find some horrific things you don't like about it. The takeaway here is that it isn't beneficial to treat situations like these as black or white. I don't think that destroying my CDs is going to do anything to take away the abuse that Jesse Lacey caused. Nor do I think ignoring the context of his music will do anyone any favors. The music he made is a product of his crimes. To ignore that fact would be disingenuous to why people enjoy his music and why the music exists in the first place. There's another element here, though. I, and many others, are no longer monetarily supporting Jesse Lacey. You can't even officially support the release of Brand New's music anymore as their record label (Procrastinate! Music Traitors) doesn't even seem to have a functioning website anymore? Regardless, I wouldn't want to support his music in a way that supports him, anyway. Yes, I enjoy the music and the themes of it, but I do not want to be directly supporting abuse that happened BECAUSE he was a vocalist in a band. And I can safely do this with CDs that I bought secondhand, right? This is death of the author. So what's the issue?

I believe there is an issue when people claim “death of the author” far too quickly and scramble to reclaim the media for themselves. It’s an increasingly popular trend these days to pluck characters/concepts from an author deemed to be problematic. "I'll save [Character I like] from this shitty piece of media!", they claim. I don't think people realize how multifaceted in effect that is, though. For instance, if the author is actively making money from their creation, you can't truly "reclaim" a character from them. It's more like you're paying homage to them with fanart.

My best on-going example of this would be Floraverse. There are a multitude of reasons why people do not like the author/s of Floraverse, which I will not go into here. To put it simply, though, since its inception in 2013, many artists and writers involved with Flora either left or were kicked out. These artists either directly contributed to the art and worldbuilding of the webcomic, or were heavily influenced by it. To this day, there are many times someone links me to art on Discord and I’ll say “oh I remember that person, they used to be a Flora fanartist!” and the other person is absolutely floored that that artist was ever linked to Floraverse. Anyway… There have been multiple attempts at people trying to reclaim Floraverse from the author, and this never works out. Like, it really doesn’t work out. Any time that someone tries to reclaim Floraverse characters for themselves whilst condemning the author, that person is dogpiled by the Floraverse community. Which is a weird behavior for a CC BY-SA webcomic, but I digress. Here are some highlights:

In 2019, there was a thread dedicated to Redesigning Floraverse that immediately got taken over by Floraverse itself a month later.

An artist got harassed for multiple years (I think it was 2020-2023) for having an oc based on Beleth, a character in Floraverse.

Just 2 months ago, an artist got harassed for drawing fanart of the characters

Historically, reclaiming Floraverse characters from the author hasn't worked out. And I mean.. why would it? It's an actively running "webcomic" (I'll be charitable) and with an active community that supports the author's current works and views with their wallets. It's one thing to enjoy a piece of media with a problematic author and want to reclaim that media for yourself. It is another for this reclamation to actually be effective. Attempts of "reclaiming" Floraverse get written off as fanworks that the community dislikes. You cannot reclaim Floraverse characters as they do not exist in a vacuum. Listening to secondhand Brand New CDs does work in a vacuum; Jesse Lacey's career is dead in the water. The same cannot be said for reclaiming the art of Glitchedpuppet and co. Floraverse characters and stories are not divorced from the abuses they cause. Characters will be used as strawmen to abuse community members, past or present. Or entire works will be up dedicated to making light of your childhood trauma! These characters were made by an abuser, and will be used to abuse. That is a simple fact about Floraverse. Except... in that statement, I'm not even talking about Glitchedpuppet, the current author of Floraverse. I'm talking about Marlcabinet, the previous author of Floraverse. This statement does however, apply to both of them. Hey, wait a minute, that's weird! I've been talking about "death of the author" for this entire post, and I just said that reclaiming Floraverse characters can't work because the way the characters were used to abuse real people doesn't exist in a vacuum. So like, why does this work within the Floraverse webcomic itself? Marl is the abuser of Glip, but Marl is also the author of the majority of early Floraverse. Isn't the story itself, as it currently stands, an act of reclaiming characters used to abuse community members, minors, and any detractors? Then who is to say that those who contributed to Floraverse and were similarly abused are not also allowed this same privilege? Their real-world suffering is what fuels the comic. When I was 13-16, I adored a Floraverse character named Cayenne. His whole deal was that he was an autistic child slave and was horribly abused by everyone around him. Weird character to connect to, but he’s the character that made me figure out I had autism! I drew a LOT of fanart of this character and I even own a (gifted) life-size plush of him. The authors only ever treated him as a joke and it was a joke even within the Floraverse community that I was the only person who actually liked/cared about him. Sometimes I think about reclaiming him for myself. But I also don’t want to get harassed, and I know I could design much better things, and write better things. Conversely, I also think about how this is the exact character that made me get into contact with Marl when I was 16. It’s a heavy weight to carry knowing that this exact character was the reason I was almost in the clutches of a child predator. Glip personally deferred me to him. Reclaiming Cayenne would hold emotional value for me as a reminder of my triumph over a predator. Would it be wrong for me to reclaim an abused child character from a comic that abused me and many others as children? I've no clue. And I don't think anyone can answer that. I've waffled on it for ~2 years now. Reclaiming Cayenne would give attention to an individual that profits off abusing others, myself included. I'd say that reclaiming Floraverse characters wouldn't be a case of "death of the author", but the original creator of them was a child predator that's no longer on the internet. Floraverse is already practicing death of an author, and it is a shell of its former self. That being said, it is not a story that only has one author. Its other authors are still active, and these authors include every person that it has abused in its wake. After all, it's a comic that relies on you to know about its dramas with and traumas of real people. Tell me: Does a death of the author matter when its being written about you?

#text #brand new #floraverse #death of the author #abuse #grooming

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blissfulip · 2 months

Text

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Cw: mentions of Child SA, allusions to the witch trials

Words: 3.1k

[A/N: Sorry for making the bishop so annoying I made myself angry proof-reading this lmao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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II.

Noon had started to crack, and Viktor sat still at the edge of his bed, his left leg throbbing with a persistent ache and guilt consuming him as he grappled with the weight of his recent actions. His mind swirled in a tumult of self-condemnation and regret as the looming certainty of facing Father Isidore when he would eventually be called up to the kitchen for lunch weighed over him.

How could he, entrusted with the guidance of others, find himself so lost in the labyrinth of his own sin? It was so easy, too, to feel like the absolutions he offered were hollow, his own inability to forgive himself casting a shadow over the sanctity of his role. And amidst this turmoil, the relentless ache in his left leg—probably due to kneeling for a prolonged stretch of time, but that in the wake of what he had just done felt more akin to divine punishment—served as a reminder of his frailty, both physical and spiritual.

But pain is purification, suffering gives way to redemption, and penitence is salvation, so isn’t pleasure the correct response after all? If martyrdom is the ultimate act of love, then why shouldn’t agony be met with enjoyment? That was the lie Viktor soothed himself with before deciding to be a step ahead of the altar boys and make his way to the kitchen.

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

His leg protested with each step, but it seemed insignificant compared to the stinging feeling on his back now that he had the rough fabric rubbing against it. What lingered wasn’t nearly as pleasant as before; however, he felt undeserving of making a fuss about it, it being a punishment—ironically—for a self-inflicted punishment that he shouldn’t have delighted in.

As he entered, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that clung to his robes and clashing with the uninviting presence of Father Isidore, who sat at the table, steaming cup in hand.

“Viktor, my son,” he exclaimed in a voice that sounded sweet and as sticky and treacherous as molasses, “I trust you have...repented.”

Viktor clenched his jaw, a wave of trepidation washing over him as he felt his judgmental gaze on him. Viktor severely disliked the special way Father Isidore enunciated; emphasis on certain words never seemed like enough for him; he always made it a point to hiss and spit; his lips thinned out and tense like he was holding in a growl. It didn’t match his childlike guise, and this made Viktor weary of him ever since he was a kid.

“I have,” he replied tersely, taking a seat opposite his superior’s robust presence.

"It seems, however, that some of us struggle more than others with the concept of self-control," he remarked, his words dripping with a subtle veil of aggression.

Viktor's stomach churned with resentment. "I am aware of my shortcomings, Father," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness.

“Don’t misunderstand me, son. It is never my intention to prohibit your studies or peg your enthusiasm for learning; you know our monastery has always valued knowledge of the great arts.”

“Until it challenges one of your universal truths, that is.”

“Precisely, are you trying to imply we should challenge the dogma?”

Viktor stayed silent.

“Tell me, do you think you are above us all?”

“Of course I don’t, father.” but he did, and this whole lecture was starting to get old.

“Then you must clearly think you are above sin. So holy and pure that you are able to read such heretic words and not be tempted by them?” He said this as he got closer to Viktor, his face slowly turning beet red: “unde et corda filiorum hominum implentur malitia et contemptu in vita sua et post haec ad inferos deducentur.”

And then he did the same eyebrow raise he used to do when Viktor was a child, and he was testing his knowledge of the scripture. Viktor sighed, partly in defeat but mostly in annoyance.

“‘Hence the hearts of the sons of men are filled with malice and contempt in their lives, and after this they are brought down to hell’,” he answered as he instinctively leaned back on the chair, the scorching sensation reminding him why it was a terrible idea.

“I can tell you are in pain; why must you still be so stubborn, even when you are enduring your penitence on the flesh?”

“I see no malice in curiosity.”

“Even when you intentionally seek the words of miscreants, knowing full well the danger it presents?”

“I don’t seek dangerous ideals; the universe is, and I simply try to understand it.”

“You are lost, Viktor.” Father Isidore’s lips curled up into a grin of contempt, a show of mockery that made it clear his concern for Viktor’s soul came from a place of scorn.

“Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana, something something, and God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear and, eh, I forgot what comes after,” Viktor recited, quiet but defiant.

“To me, you are nothing but a test of resilience, Viktor. If I have to tear you down myself to build you back up as a God-honoring servant, I will.” He said this as he visibly struggled to disguise his frustration. “Come, I would like you to meet someone.”

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

As they made their way through the narrow streets of the small town, the bustling activity of the market greeted them. Vibrant stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their displays of fresh produce and handmade goods drawing Viktor’s attention. All the while, he wondered who this mysterious person and possible weapon of torture would be.

Father Isidore walked with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect as he exchanged warm greetings with anyone who crossed their path. Soon they came upon an elderly woman sitting by a small table, adorned with a meager assortment of goods. Her weathered face bore the deep lines of a life well-lived, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that belied her frailty. She smiled weakly as they approached, her gnarled hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Father!" called out an elderly woman, her face lighting up with a smile as she approached. "Blessings be upon you."

He gave back a smile that could've fooled anyone, but Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that there was something calculated in his demeanor. "And to you as well, my dear," Father Isidore replied, his tone tinged with a hint of forced sincerity. "How are you faring today?"

"Oh, just getting by as best I can, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Times have been hard, but the Lord provides."

"Indeed, He does, and speaking of such, have you been able to fulfill your tithe to the church this month?”

The elderly woman's smile faltered slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with the worn fabric of her apron. "I... I'm afraid not, Father," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Things have been tight lately, with the harvest being poor and all."

His expression hardened imperceptibly, though his tone remained gentle as he pressed the issue. "I understand, my dear," he continued. "But you must remember the importance of supporting the church, especially in these trying times. Perhaps there is something else you could sacrifice to ensure your tithe is met."

Viktor watched in silent anger as the elderly woman's shoulders slumped in resignation, her eyes downcast as she nodded in reluctant agreement. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a surge of rage at the ease with which Father Isidore exploited the vulnerability of this woman for the sake of the church's coffers.

“If I may, Lucida,” Viktor interjected. Different from his superior, he knew the members of their community; he had taken time to know them and had offered his friendship along with his guidance. “You must be forgetting; your daughter has already come to offer lithe on behalf of your family.”

This was a lie, but be it because Lucida’s age was betraying her memory or because she had taken the hint of what Viktor was doing, it didn’t matter. Her mouth shaped into a round O as she nodded at both of them. Father Isidor looked at Viktor with suspicion but did not press the issue any further either, simply dragging Viktor by his free arm to continue on their way.

A modest house was nestled along the path. Father Isidore announced himself with a drawn-out knock on the solid wood of the door, and the figure of a weary woman appeared as the door peered open. When she saw the men, her feeble demeanor swiftly morphed into visible uneasiness.

Viktor knew her; she had been at the cathedral at least once, and multiple times she had made herself present at Viktor’s masses in the small town parish. She had never reacted this way to him before, so Viktor knew it was the man beside him who was causing this woman concern.

“Father Isidore, I’m sorry; I did not expect to see you here,” she cried out, trying to hide the tremble in her voice.

“Fret not, dear; I haven’t come to collect her yet; I simply wanted Viktor to meet her.” He scrutinized the inside of the house from where he stood before gently pushing the woman aside to enter the house, uninvited. Viktor gave her quiet apologies and small awkward smiles, following close behind him when she gave him a sign to invite him in.

The woman took them to the other side of the small house; there, the threshold of what seemed to have been a door in the past separated this expanse from the rest of the house. In the dimly lit chamber, a young teenage girl sat on the edge of her bed, her long black twin braids cascading down her shoulders like a dark veil, so dark that if you looked at it under the right light, it might even look blue.

Her posture was slumped, and her slender frame seemed to wilt under an invisible weight. The room around her felt heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of her shallow breaths. She looked up to look at them as the three entered, but her once vibrant eyes, now dulled and distant, gazed blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Darling, Father Isidore has come to see you; will you say hi to him and his friend?” Her mother asked delicately as she sat down on the bed next to her. Viktor was stumped; he didn’t remember seeing this girl at any of the functions before or around the town as he ran errands. The girl’s hands lay limply in her lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the faded bedspread as she looked at Father Isidore.

And very subtly, her once empty gaze welled up with noticeable rage.

“What do you want, sheep?” Her voice sounded so sweet, yet her words were so filled with venom.

“Careful now; I’m not here to take you yet, but I might change my mind if you decide to get nervy with me.”

She squinted slightly before giving Father Isidore an empty smirk and snapping her head quickly to look directly at Viktor. “Are you in trouble too? I’m only ever used as an example.”

“I-eh, I’m not sure.” Viktor pondered her words for a short second: “An example?”

“For what not to do.” She scoffed; she now seemed unaffected by their presence, giggling at Viktor’s confused expression, like he had told her a joke. “What did you do? Illegal medicine?” she asked, and she continued when she received no response. “You’re a priest; did you lay with a woman? Oh, oh, oh, a man, perhaps?”

The amusement in her tone was not enough to cut the tension in the air. Viktor wondered why no one seemed to care about what she was saying, but he figured Father Isidore was attempting to make a point out of this, and her mother was too afraid to do anything that might upset the bishop.

“I would ask you if you touched a child, but they care considerably less about that than they do about banned...That’s it, isn’t it? You—” She said, now wiggling her feet like she had reverted to an earlier stage of her life. “—are a man of science; I can see in your eyes that you know what heliocentrism is.” She giggled her way through those words and looked at Viktor with wide eyes, awaiting a response.

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards as the mother stood by the door, her expression wrought with fear, while Father Isidore's features were etched with thinly veiled frustration.

Suddenly, the girl spoke, her voice soft but tinged with defiance. "You can't stop me, fawner," she said, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. "I won't let you."

Father Isidore's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he shot the girl a warning glare. "Enough," he admonished. "You know the consequences of disobedience, and you know what awaits you; don’t make an effort to rush your departure."

With a sense of urgency, the mother hurriedly ushered them toward the door, pleading and apologizing on her daughter’s behalf, and in the onslaught of their departure, Viktor felt a small object slip into his hand. Startled, he glanced down only to see the girl’s swift fingers pressing something into his palm and a pair of brazen eyes that quickly snuck back onto the bed, unnoticed.

He didn’t dare to look, not as long as he had eyes on him, so he clenched his fist around it, as if something told him he ought not to lose it. Viktor's mind raced with questions, his confusion mounting with each hurried step as they silently walked the path back to the parish. As they climbed the small steps to go inside the building, the bishop spoke.

“She is being taken to undergo a trial for witchcraft, but I’m sure what you saw made that evident.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“What do witches look like, son?”

“Wretched, evil, hateful...”

“And is it not evil to go against the dogma of our faith? Is it not wretched to seek deranged ideals like ‘heliocentrism’ and ‘geokinesis’, mad, truly mad things for someone who is fearful of God to believe, and especially wicked for a woman to believe?”

Viktor did not answer.

“God has great plans for you, Viktor. Do not stray from your path, and you’ll be able to avoid an end like hers” He said, punctuating the last word with a hefty—and ignobly intentional—pat on his back.

The wounds, still fresh and tender, protested vehemently against the sudden contact, each movement a reminder of the agony that plagued him. He visibly winced and took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, doing his best to suppress the urge to cry out in pain. But it wasn't just the physical discomfort that gnawed at him. Beneath the surface, a simmering anger had been bubbling.

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

Alone again in the confines of his quarters, Viktor sank to his knees in front of the small wooden crucifix that adorned the wall. His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer, his lips moving silently in fervent entreaty.

“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…” He began automatically, but he didn’t know what he had prayed for.

When the prayer ended, there was silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…” He started once again, perhaps a mother would pity him.

Silence.

Anger burned within him like a smoldering ember. The rotund face of Father Isidore plagued his inner thoughts. How could a man of God, a shepherd of the faithful, wield his power with such callous disregard?

But beneath the anger lay a deeper, more insidious emotion: guilt. Guilt for his own weakness, for his depravity, for his inability to rise above the turmoil and find solace in his faith. With a frustrated sigh, Viktor bowed his head lower, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to contain the tempest raging within him.

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. "Why do I pray, day after day, only to be met with silence? Have I been forsaken, abandoned by the very God I serve?"

But as the echoes of his words faded into the darkness, there came no answer, and in that moment of profound solitude, Viktor felt more alone than ever before, until he remembered the small object he had managed to slip into his robes.

A brass coin, small and thin enough that he could break it with his bare hands if he was not careful. It appeared to have worn off with time, the original color having faded into a dark green, corroded shade. As he held it up to the dim candlelight, the symbol etched into its surface seemed to shimmer—a circle with small letters around its circumference that he couldn’t read. In it there was a smaller circle, and inside of it, even smaller, a strange swirly shape with five triangles on its flat top and a cross in the very center.

He knew, deep inside, that he recognized what he knew to be the symbol of a creature of darkness and forbidden knowledge. His instincts screamed at him to cast it aside, to rid himself of its tainted influence, but a curious fascination held him captive. In a surge of frustration and desperation, Viktor closed his eyes and clasped the coin tightly in his hands, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“God has failed me; let this be the time I am acknowledged.” For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whisper of his own breath. But then, just as Viktor's hope began to wane, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the coin, spreading through his fingertips.

Like a heavy shroud enveloping the room, suffusing the air with palpable tension, the atmosphere shifted, thickening with an otherworldly energy that seemed to hum with ancient power. A chill ran down Viktor's spine when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. As he summoned the courage to gaze upon the figure behind him, he found himself confronted by a sight that defied all comprehension.

The figure of a woman, alluring and terrible but terrifyingly familiar, stood before him. A surge of primal terror mixed with a morbid fascination compelled him to stand his ground, and then he heard her voice.

“Curious, very curious.” She whispered.

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