#Sacred Authority

[ryanranney]

The Temple Staff

I would not want the history blemished Or the origins buried too deeply I wound not want the Heavens forgotten Or the foundation of life lost I would not want space filled with lies Or the distances encumbered Here in my hand it is laid bare Yet my minds eye sees the staff Held firmly in my right hand Here on my body it is laid bare Yet my minds eye sees the robe Flowing down from my…

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

(cw: noncon)

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic. Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though. When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you admitted you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening the damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better aff jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een oot.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze. He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway. You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting his knuckles. He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit. You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any embarrassment from building in your gut. Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ an adult grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s. Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed. It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer. You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand. The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind. You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John just inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.” John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly the weather was tonight and hadn’t practically jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.” Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb. You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle. It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh. “Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much. Your sole scuffs against debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before. As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now. You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

He was smiling at you again. It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward. You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles. They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle. It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh? That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble. 

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over. You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits. At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right? But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[saturnianthots]

[lord-squiggletits]

I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

[andy-clutterbuck]

The Ones Who Live | 1x03 - Bye

[iamwinklebottom]

“I spoke with Mother Water and she said there’s a time to be selfless and a time to be selfish. She said when opportunities come, pick wisely and to love yourself while making these divine decisions. She said there’s a lot that you know and there’s more to know. More knowledge is always on the horizon. Pay attention to days and nights.”

This is a channeled art piece that I finished quite a while ago, knowing I was channeling water, but not knowing I was channeling a specific aspect of it.

What’s callin out to you the most: shapes, colors, patterns?

I’m grateful for my connectivity and as I become more connected, my connectivity is grateful for me.

[vox-anglosphere]

St Michael's parish church in Haworth, beloved by the Brontë family

[lilacerull0]

but now in the summer haze all i can think is that you are so beautiful -> now you come back every summer like a carnivorous flower and i stare at your hands in the heat and i think they are the most beautiful thing i've ever seen -> i could drown in it i could drown for you -> i've blown apart my life for you and bodies hit the floor for you

[hecates-corner]

more Aphrodite and her mortal lover por favor? *hopeful eyes*

Of COURSE! Me encanta escribir esta historia.

How about a nice little POV switch, hm?

She is as lovely the poets paint her. As the bards sing her to be.

My lady is warm as sun-blessed honey, swift-running and golden as the very voice she beholds. Even in her mortal form, the very one that drew me in like a frail moth to a flickering flame, her eyes shine blue as the cresting sea: now light, and now dark. The bubbles of the tide are painted into the hue, white flecks that could very well be misplaced stars in the sky of broad daylight.

Her olive skin glints like bronze, the corn color of her hair flowing down it as a stream tumbles down gentle rocks of a cliff. Her hands, small and smooth, with lightly visible veins, twist and fly through the air as we dance with one another. The rosy dawn cannot hold a candle to the flush on her high cheeks, as plush and pink as the roses that grow where I would come to lay.

We run, through a field of rustling grain, wind whistling as it blows through each strand. The bright sky begins to rumble, a horde of swelling clouds growing dark, moving in towards us. We know of the drops, of the cold tears that will fall when those cotton clumps swarm our once-vast, shrinking skies.

She turns, enough to tilt her teasing form towards me, and extends a hand. It curls out, her graceful wrist like the neck of a sweet swan, bending just so to lay her paled palm flat. An invitation.

When I take it, she laughs, laughs, and it is of falling feathers, snow white and soft. It is the unfurling petals of a waking blossom, and the scent of apples in the breeze. She is perfect, though I did not think a word to exist.

My Aphrodite guides me, out bare feet leaping and landing upon soft earth, the soil that will soon be damp with water from the domain of my love's familiar, lord of cloud. Was he chasing us, pursuing us then? I could not say, for I thought of no one but her. Though I did not think so. We were small and unimportant to such a great gaze, especially then. To us, the world was not ours, nor were we owned. We simply were.

She led me gently over a hollow log, dark and soft with impending rot, and we were there.

Together we tumbled backwards, as she tugged me into her embrace and we landed upon the spongey moss that cushioned our fall. I laughed, then, louder than before. Giggles that shook us both, holding fast and clutching one another gently, for we knew neither of us would escape.

Mortals fear gods will come to them in forms of doves, of oxen or bulls, in showers of light. Some fear gods will leave them the same ways. I did not feel weary of either. My dearest was many things, but I knew her, for how little we had been acquainted.

The skies rumbled again, vibrating deep within the earth. The sound of the rain began to approach earshot, incessant white noise of the showering pull. It smelled of rain.

A fig tree loomed over us, shielding the remaining sun and the imminent rain from our skins, and casting the gentle comfort of its matronly power over us.

I pressed my face into her neck, her soft locks like myrtles crushed beneath my cheek. She let me nuzzle my nose into the underside of her jaw, feeling out the sweet concavity of the bone. I kissed the space there, where tongue tissue connected with the muscle inside of her mouth.

She hummed, contentedly. "My dear," she spoke, so smoothly and with such ease that it would have brought tears to my eyes at the loveliness. "If we do not return to your home soon, we will be caught in the haze of the storm."

I chuckled. "You do not think I hope for such?"

She was quiet, but even I could feel the grin spread on her lips. She need not say a word, just the buzz of the laugh in her throat was enough for me.

The clouds consumed the sky, and drops dripped from their vastness, dropping down and rolling like sips of water down thirsty throats. The chilly tears landed sweetly upon us, one by one, dissonantly. I tipped my chin up to watch her blink a drop from her dark lashes.

"Do you truly look like this?" I asked.

She was curious. Not surprised, simply curious.

"The way you see me?" She closed her eyes, in place of where a head shake would be. "No."

"No?"

She laughed, a songbird's throaty call. "I appear differently to every mortal. But I know how they see me." Aphrodite cast me a knowing glance. "Blonde, and blue eyed? That is your peak of beauty?"

I flushed. "Like the ocean, and the sand over which it drapes."

She snorted. "Like the children of Zeus."

My hand flew up and swatted her shoulder gently, her body rocking harder with larger giggles. "Oh, please, my lady. Do not scorn me."

"I do not, love." My Aphrodite laughed. "I simply wonder what beauty is to you."

"You are beauty to me," I replied, much too quickly to have been untrue. "In whatever form you may take."

She paused, but there was no word to speak, no comment to mutter. She simply was, and so I was, too. Silence enveloped us, the comfortable and easy quiet that cupped us so gently.

At last, she spoke.

"I do have a true form." Aphrodite said.

I waited. "You do?"

"Yes." She spoke, simply.

Perhaps I could have said a million things: show me, or what shape does your hair hold? Or asked if she even had hair.

But I did not. I did not say any of those, or anything close.

"Good." I said, because it was the only thing I needed to say.

[alex-a-roman]

Sacred grounds

Walking on forgotten trails outside of this town, I’m searching for what was lost in between the lines; Every hill and valley will always remind me Of the sacred grounds that I left behind.

And deep down, I know the sun will never shine,  The same way it shines in the heart of this forest, on this road, near this river; And my smile, I know I’ll never smile like I smiled when I was with you  Together alone, in a perfect world,  With make-believe friends and adventures to last us a million lives.

And I know,  I know you don’t see these things as I do You don’t cherish the memories I so dearly hold onto, Maybe we were meant to live this way, in different worlds - You, normal and happy Me, always searching for my home.

~ A. A. Roman

[virtuouslibertines69]

"There is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma; those gloomy openings stand yawning there, but something tells you, you, a passer-by in life, that you must not enter. Woe to him who penetrates thither! " - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Art by François Launet

[primordialruin]

Im personally against the vast interpretation of Adam being seen as sexist in his marriage with Lilith simply because it doesn't make sense in my mind. It's easy to think that when you only go off the Alphabet of Ben Sira as he was the one trying to subdue her during sex, but if you substitute the act of copulation with sessions of debates, then you'd be getting a new view of the matter.

The Zohar has always made it known that it was Lilith who was the odd one out in their marriage. She's known as a quarrelsome woman, and a partner that was unfit for him because she wasn't a good help. There's also the text that hints at evil spirits that haunt him during his marriage to her. Personally, I view this as Adam's failure to integrate Lilith's arguments in his view of the world with the evil spirits being the seeds of doubt being planted in his head from her inquisitive nature - a very dangerous thing in the Garden of Eden. Her attempts to shake him to the truth of their equal standing in the Alphabet could have been her plea to get him to look her way and consider her words. The failure of doing so definitely seems like he was trying to make her submit to his dogma which has made her leave him and Eden all together. You could interpret this as the man choosing his faith over his partner's concerns as the reason that killed their marriage. But as sad as this may be, it's not enough to warrant thinking about the first man as sexist. If anything, you could even interpret this incompatibility as forced upon them due to the Zohar having stated once or twice that Lilith had to be REMOVED from Adam. I often think of this as a ploy to get Eve to replace her.

[biscuityskies]

Consumerist culture is going to be the end of me.

Trying to beat it back with a stick as I drag myself to work and then to the grocery store and then to the department store where they have things that they don’t have at the grocery store is hard enough. BUT NOW I HAVE TO BEAT IT BACK WITH A STICK IN FIC WRITING???? WITH MY SILLY LITTLE BLORBOS????? WHERE I GO TO GET AWAY FROM CONSUMERIST CULTURE???????

I’m sorry I don’t write long, drawn out, multi-chaptered fics that have a beginning a middle and an end. I’m sorry I can’t spare the time or the energy trying to figure out how best to navigate my writing, because I’m just trying to survive the real world. I’m sorry I can’t write the amazing cinematic masterpieces. Doesn’t mean I don’t dream about it.

Perhaps more importantly, I’m sorry to the other authors whose works I no longer have time to read. And I’m sorry to the other authors who are feeling this way.

My stick is breaking, and I don’t have another one.

[ofglories]

Bors tends to easily slip back into the role of the young Knight of the Round he was in the prime of his life as that's when he was summoned. But sometimes he'll slip and speak with more authority and wisdom, as befitting his role as king of Gannes and his age at the time of his death. After all, he did outlive basically everyone in the Arthuriana, though he's far from proud of it.

Plus he's happiest when he can simply be Bors and nothing else.

[ladycatryx]

In Defense of Harry Potter

If you or someone you love is a trans person in crisis: The Trevor Project‘s 24/7/365 Lifeline [US]: 866-488-7386 Trans Lifeline [US]: 877-565-8860 TrevorChat, (online instant messaging option) International Support: TrevorSpace

I minored in Gender Studies for both my Bachelor's and Master's. I have a bookshelf full of queer theory. I have several trans friends.

And I went to a Harry Potter themed party the other day.

Like many of my fellow 90s kids, I grew up reading Harry Potter. It was an era-defining feature of my adolescence, eagerly anticipating book releases and midnight movie theatre screenings. But unlike many of my peers, it is not merely a feature of my past. I still regularly read and write Harry Potter fanfiction. I have beautiful art books and unofficial compendiums chock-full of lore and behind-the-scenes details. I am a HP trivia wizard---or witch, as the case may be. I have so much investment into the lore and the world of Harry Potter, and I often find myself in Hogwarts and the surrounding Highlands in my dreams---even moreso now that Hogwarts Legacy has given us a first-person and 3D experience of the layout and landscape of the Wizarding World. So I relished the chance to don my Slytherin robes and get all dressed up in character. The pictures turned out great. But I couldn't post them on any of my social media. I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that anyone who continues to support or engage with the Harry Potter franchise is a TERF and a fascist. Full stop. To quote one of my friends, "I don't interact with Harry Potter media anymore. And frankly I treat any interest in it as a sign of transphobia for my own safety. So I really don't care to know much about the [Hogwarts Legacy] game aside from the disgusting blood libel it chose to use in it's narrative. It's a hard line for me as a trans person."

It's a controversial topic, to be sure. Now I absolutely hate cancel culture's tendency to drag something someone said 10 years ago into the spotlight and blow it out of proportion, even sometimes taking it out of its original context to spin it as a bad actor with bad intentions, and then to deny people the ability to apologize or acknowledge personal growth (see: what happened to Lindsay Ellis. Thanks, I hate it). But let's be clear: that's not the case here. JKR has only dug herself deeper into the hole, being belligerently and purposefully ignorant and cruel despite a PR team probably begging her to shut up, and despite an entire world of people who have attempted to teach her better. She has acted, and continues to act, in bad faith, even writing trans and queer-coded villains and serial killers into her latest books. This is not a person who has attempted to apologize and make right her wrongs when they've been pointed out. This is someone who has been given every opportunity to not be an awful person and instead has doubled down on her hurtful and hateful views.

So, now that we know JKR's true colors, clearly the entire world of Harry Potter is suspect, as is anyone who continues to enjoy it....right? Sure, maybe not everyone who still rocks their House Pride merch is a TERF, but, like the sandwich-eaters of Chick-fil-A who just need their chicken fix, they certainly can't be counted as allies....right?

I've struggled with this.

And maybe this entire blog post will be read as nothing more than a selfish person defending their right to enjoy a thing guilt-free in order to conveniently overlook or dismiss the harm they're doing by persisting in centering their nostalgia over the real-life danger JKR's views presents to trans people. You can be the judge of that, I suppose.

My impulse since all of this has been to lean into "death of the author," an argument that says, essentially, it is not authorial intent that matters for meaning, but the text itself that is authoritative. In theory, the text can speak for itself, and the way readers engage with it and interpret it can stand in isolation from whatever meaning was meant by the author. (For an excellent video on this subject, click here, and here for a JKR-specific one). But I'd like to expand on that here, because 1) as the links above point out, engaging with the work of a living author still empowers them and gives them a platform and 2) is usually just an emotional response to silo oneself from the guilt of consuming the content of a problematic creator. In other words, it's a cop-out.

But I'm a sociologist. I'm currently an ABD Ph.D. student. I specialize in theory, gender, religion, and culture---the latter is just an elaborate system of signs and symbols that we are embedded in and have to make meaning out of. And meaning-making is a messy business. Interpretation is a vital and integral part of meaning-making. Messages aren't just handed down from the heavens and absorbed---social actors are actively engaged in the process of receiving them. Sometimes there are interferences, misunderstandings, and mixed signals that scramble the meaning. Intent does not equal impact, and so the messages we receive and understand do not always correspond to the meaning that was meant. (Again, not saying JKR is misunderstood or that we're misreading her intentions here---she's pretty unequivocally awful. But I am saying that in a world where meaning is what we make it, a trash person can still produce something of value, since beauty is in the eye of the beholder.)

Sometimes reading a meaning other than that which was meant into something can have humorous consequences. Sometimes the results are disastrous. Sometimes it means that we humans, as pattern-seeking creatures, see the face of Jesus on a slice of toast, or a baby-shaped cloud in the sky the same week we find out a loved one is pregnant. I think the fact that we can make meaning where there is none and make beauty out of nothing is spectacular, miraculous. In this age of disenchantment, many people are looking for ways to reconnect and reenchant their lives, to create sacred rituals out of their mundane routines. We are meaning-seeking creatures, and with many people feeling burned by, disillusioned with, or distrustful of traditional religion, we are turning to nontraditional sources of wisdom and inspiration. For literal millions of people, the Harry Potter books have been one such source. And I think there is value to them still, despite what has come to light about their author.

In college, I was heavily involved in interfaith activism. I no longer identify as Christian, but I was raised Christian. And I started to feel the parallels from my own experience.

If a person has been hurt by a Christian, feels Christianity is toxic, identifies passages in the Bible that have been used to oppress or were the product of a time that was openly endorsing of slavery, homophobia, misogyny, etc...their experience is valid. They have a right to say "Hey, I was raised with this thing and at one point it meant a lot to me (or maybe not, maybe it was always forced) but it hurt me and I no longer feel comfortable there and I choose not to engage with Christianity anymore." They have a right to be wary if they hear someone is Christian and they don't know anything else about that person.

But no religion is a monolith. The Bible is not a monolith. For every passage that may be hurtful or harmful or be interpreted in bad faith to support a particular agenda, there are dozens more about love, kindness, and compassion. Religion has been the driving force behind so many wars and evils...but it has inspired countless good as well. The Bible has been wielded as a weapon to cause suffering as well as been looked to as a resource of hope and peace.

I'm not saying that cancelling someone for resonating deeply with the Harry Potter series and not wanting to give it up because of what it means to them is like asking someone to not be a Christian or to give up their faith so as not to offend others. Of course, the comparison seems flippant. Religion is religion! We give it special legal protections because of its literally sacred status. It concerns matters of ultimate importance. The other is...fiction.

But what is sacred is a social construction. I'm going to bracket here any discussion about the existence or nonexistence of deities, an afterlife, and etc. What does religion actually do for people? What does it mean in the lives of the faithful? It is a source of comfort. Of hope. Of inspiration. Of answers. It can be a moral guide, with lessons and instruction and a guide for how to live that others can model their own lives on.

Casper ter Kuile, cofounder of the podcast Harry Potter and the Sacred Text, (check out their values statement if you want to know where they stand---spoiler alert, they're as progressive as it gets) would not find the comparison ridiculous. In fact, ter Kuile (who is, by the way, a gay man) founded the project with a fellow student while at Harvard Divinity School. In his book The Power of Ritual (2020) he talks about how the HP books have been a source of solace and inspiration and sacred reflection for him---and not just for him, but for thousands. Millions.

"Millions of readers already treated the Potter books as sacred in their own way. Therapists and counselors report young people using Hogwarts as their psychological safe space to go to in times of struggle and pain. And it isn't simply a refuge from the world. The Harry Potter Alliance, founded in 2005, has mobilized thousands around the country to act on marriage equality, fair-trade chocolate, and other progressive issues, using the narratives and rituals from the books to motivate and shape winning campaigns. Just as social justice movements have reinterpreted biblical narratives like the Exodus story and quoted the psalms, so too the Harry Potter Alliance references characters and plotlines from the wizarding world to motivate readers into action" (2020:44-45).

The HP books have helped people (and kids) cope with the loss of loved ones, understand privilege, learn that adults, authority figures, and even the government that makes the laws can lie and be corrupted and may not always have one's best interests at heart. That what is legal is not necessarily right or just. That evil doesn't just look like pale, snake-faced men who attempt to murder babies---sometimes it's enough for people in power to do nothing, to care more about maintaining their own relative privilege, power, and comfort. That often bullies lash out because they too have been hurt, and that hate can be easier to speak than love when it's all that you know...but that in the end, it is our choices that matter, not our abilities or the circumstances of our birth. The books have powerful messages, and they have nuance.

Take, for example, Petunia Dursley. As ter Kuile points out, universally disliked. But:

"As Vanessa and I reread that first chapter, we saw a young woman, unsupported in motherhood, suddenly given a second infant to care for after the death of her sister. Imposed on by a world she has always envied and feared, with no explanation, she feels vulnerable to a society that can only spell danger. No doubt, Petunia is abusive to Harry. She neglects him in the most foundational years of his life. But this sacred reading illustrated that narratives of good and evil nearly always are more complex when we risk our hearts to explore a sacred reading. It not only gave me a new lens for understanding a character, but it challenged me to realize I'd let the polarizing news narratives construct simplistic binaries of innocence and guilt" (2020:49).

The books aren't perfect. Even the messages JKR wrote into the books aren't all good, even if many are. Many people despise Dumbledore despite the twinkle in his eye and his many wise sayings for the way he used Harry like a pawn, like a tool---keeping him in the dark and just getting him to survive long enough to get him to die at the right time. By putting him in danger year after year, putting responsibility on his shoulders that no child should ever have to bear. For thinking that there would ever be an acceptable reason to leave him in the care of abusers, blood or no, magical love ward or no. And I love fanfiction because this messiness is explored and unpacked.

And yet, in canon, this jock who married his high school girlfriend and became a cop named his son after that guy and the incel who lusted after his mom man who tormented him and his schoolmates for years (I do love Snape as a literary character though, speaking of nuance...) instead of, oh, Remus, Rubeus, Arthur...y'know, any of the other men that were actually decent father figures to him in his life.

And yes, there are some heinous things in the book, like giving the Asian character the name Cho Chang and the Black man the name Shacklebolt. The antisemitism of the way goblins are portrayed: big-nosed, greedy, and money-hungry. And don't get me started on the fucking shofar. It has become trendy to shit on the books and other related IP, even to the point of ridiculousness. (Case in point: the uproar over the inclusion of a trans character in Hogwarts Legacy. And not from TERFs, but from the progressive community. At first I didn't understand---performative allyship? Surely her inclusion, and the ability to make trans characters in the character create, is better than the alternative, right? Apparently, it's her name that's the issue: Sirona Ryan. I had to actually look up why people were mad because again, I didn't get it. Evidently, people took issue with the "Sir" and the "Ryan," arguing that two such masculine-sounding elements on a trans woman's name was the equivalent of naming her "Penis McMan." Yes, really. Guess we better tell Serena Williams she's canceled too for perpetuating the "Black women athletes are too muscular and masculinized" stereotype). Anyway, it's been a dogpile lately to point out the plot holes and the poor world-building. And I admit, fanfiction authors often wield some amazing transformative alchemy, building on some of the half-assed parts of the lore and magic system and turning it into something far superior to what is canon. Nevertheless, it is reductive and revisionist history to portray the books as something other than the international bestsellers that they are. They are not the most amazing, brilliant things ever written, and yes, there are series out there that deserve the fame and attention and accolades that the Harry Potter series got. But nor are the HP books terrible derivative drivel that suddenly everyone wants to portray them as. In reality, they're a mixed bag.

What they undeniably are is important to people.

People read sacred texts because:

"the thousands of years in which generations have engaged these texts is something we need to pay attention to; and that we can step into a continuous stream of conversation between the text and human beings that has lasted centuries" (The Power of Ritual 2020:38).

There are nuggets of wisdom and timeless truths to be found, even in fiction. There is nostalgia for those of us who literally grew up with these characters, being of a similar age to Harry, Ron, and Hermione as we first read the books. The HP series is fairly unique in being both culturally relevant---a pop culture touchstone (I can't recall ever attending themed midnight release parties at a bookstore for any other series)---and possessing of longevity. The HP generation is passing the books along to their kids now. It connects generations in a way not many other franchises do. Star Wars and Lord of the Rings are the only other ones that come to my mind at the moment.

JKR is a TERF (which is not a slur, incidentally). Unapologetic. An awful person, certainly.

But I've seen people call her evil.

We can debate the meaning of the term, certainly. Evil itself is not black and white---her own books taught me that. If someone is evil, can anything they produce contain some good? Or is it irreparably tainted? Can someone be evil and still donate millions of pounds to charities for the homeless and victims of domestic violence? Could an evil person be capable of writing such emotionally deep and nuanced characters?

I think we are all capable of great evil and great good. Again, I'm not advocating for forgiveness or redemption here---she's done nothing to earn such goodwill. I don't support her.

But I think there are ethical ways to continue to engage in and enjoy the franchise. Don't buy officially licensed merch---but the fan-made stuff on Etsy labeled "Red House" or "Magical School Badger House" I find fair game. Buy your copy of Hogwarts Legacy used, or borrow from a friend. (Personally, I'm pessimistic enough to think that there's nothing I personally can or can't do that will financially impact her in any meaningful way...throwing away all my HP merch and not buying the $7 Slytherin slipper socks at BoxLunch isn't going to make a dent. It's up to the major companies and corporations that have partnered with her in the past to license Harry Potter-themed merch to roll back their association, and for production studios and actors to refuse to associate with the franchise. That's what she'll notice and care about. But I digress.)

On a personal level, I find deep psychological satisfaction from identifying as a Slytherin. (I'm also that bitch who is way too into her MBTI archetype and knows her rising sign and other obscure details of her natal chart, so sue me.) Just the other day, I got into an argument with my partner, who accused me of employing leading questions to get information about his mental state and plans for the day---he prefers directness, I find subtlety to be much more polite. We speak different languages. That's not the point. The point is, he felt manipulated, and even though he knows me well enough to know it wasn't out of any malicious intent, it felt slimy to him. From my perspective, my approach comes from a history of emotional abuse from my father, who has Borderline Personality Disorder and a host of other mental illnesses I inherited (yay, trauma!) In other words, it's a survival tactic. (Self-preservation: also a Slytherin trait.) I had to learn to prioritize myself from a very young age to avoid being taken advantage of. To some, that may sound selfish. For me, it was survival. And the word "manipulation" gets a bad rap, but it literally means "to handle or control (a tool, mechanism, etc.), typically in a skillful manner." That isn't necessarily sinister or done with bad intentions. It's strategic. It's smart. It's what emotionally aware humans have evolved to do as social animals. We don't talk about manipulating tools as shady behavior. It's an asset, this ability.

Maybe that's my ambition speaking. But I wouldn't be where I am today---working hard to earn my Ph.D., having already earned a Master's Degree from a highly prestigious institution, having graduated summa cum laude with research honors at my previous university---without ambition. But I do understand that people distrust sly, slippery, cunning people. But Coyote is a culture hero, I don't abide by the maligning of snakes and serpents, and I'm a Prometheus/Lucifer apologist. People may not find their methods entirely honorable, but you can't argue with the results being for the greatest good. Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends. It all fits, and it's a label that allows me to understand myself and my motivations and priorities better.

If you've been hurt and betrayed by JKR and can no longer find solace in a world that was once a source of comfort for you, I grieve that with you. I understand, and I'm sorry. No one should be forced to engage with something they find tainted and harmful, and everyone must draw that line for themselves. But I think there are ethical ways to continue to enjoy and engage with a franchise that has been a source of joy and inspiration for so many, including those within the LGB+TGNC community. The text even lends itself to queer, subversive, progressive, and action-oriented readings, which is the sweetest form of reclaiming and empowerment, and which the queer community has a long history of---appropriating the hurtful and harmful and transforming it into something playful and prideful. Queer folx are the original alchemists.

It's an egregore now, especially the fanon version of the Wizarding World. It's the collective product of millions of people loving and investing in these characters and their world. It has taken on a life of its own, independent of its creator. And like Lucifer, like humankind, it can defy the will and designs of its master and break away. It's expanded beyond her. She may have built the framework of the house, but we grew up there. We furnished it. And we can return to move things around and play in it from time to time. Some of us never left. I won't give that up because I've been made to feel I have to.

Oh, and that Harry Potter themed party? It was held at a business that is an unofficial hub for the local queer community. A portion of the proceeds went to a local LGBTQ charity, and there were several trans people in attendance. And we all had a fabulous time.

[tamaharu]

we cannooootttt let more institutions move to online/mobile shit entirely bc why is my dorm housing key going digital for this next school year