#like those were the original confessionals

[armandsfangs]

I agree that by the time we get to Dubai, that's ultimately what their dynamic became (mutual trauma responses), but the tragedy is that it didn't start out that way. Louis was aware that Armand had identity issues as I said and from his confessional monologue in s1 he's aware of his own sins as a brothel owner and to me, the explicit asking for consent here is him actively doing better and NOT wanting to replicate that. If Louis had made a statement like "I'm going to take care of you, Arun" that would have read as a gross power move to me, but the fact that he is explicitly asking, checking in, and later on he assures Armand that he doesn't have to turn Madeleine if he doesn't want to, makes me think that during Paris, Louis was genuinely trying to make sure their relationship was consensual. He wanted control, but he also did not want to be Lestat. Prior to this scene, I don't think Louis expresses any desire to control Armand, he's all about being a free spirit and "I'm out here if you want me". The bdsm vibes kick in after Armand calls him Maître, after he thinks Armand has consented.

Also I consider Amadeo (and even Armand) to be more of a slave name, not Arun, because they are distinctly European names that were forced on him, meant to assimilate him (to Marius' teachings and then to the cult of darkness) and rip him further from his cultural roots. It's true that he's not even sure if Arun was his real name, but it's the only connection that he had to his ethnic origins and the only name where we don't know if it was forced on him. It makes sense to me that Louis, as a Black Creole man whose character arc is heavily influenced by his struggles due to racial inequality and the roles he was forced to play to appease the white men in power, would sympathize with Armand say "fuck those roles" and ask "what do YOU want? YOU can decide for yourself"

Whether or not Armand understood the message because of his own trauma is an entirely different issue, but I maintain that Louis was reaching out from a place of love in that specific scene.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Arun?" is THE most romantic Loumand line to me because this is Louis, knowing that Armand has suffered a life of abuse, of being bent and broken and reshaped to his captors' will, knowing that he has a complicated relationship with his own sense of self from the history he has shared, taking care to ask I want to know if you actually want this as yourself, not as Amadeo, the Maestro's perfect muse, not as Armand, the fearsome coven leader, but as Arun, the real you, before you were forced into those roles against your will. Arun, who did not have a choice then, you are free to make the choice now. Are you sure that you want this?

Which makes it extra unhinged that Armand's response is basically "yes daddy"

[lovifie]

Lift Me Off My Feet

Chapter 6: Boundaries

Masterlist

Original Thought - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

W: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a bit of angst before the nasties ❤️

The good thing about the three of you doing the walk of shame together is that at least you are not the one who got it worse. Price is walking like he just came of the confessional, not a sin committed in his life; you look like you should, like you just got fucked nicely but nothing a couple of minutes laying down can't help you disguise and Gaz… poor Gaz look a bit destroyed, but he carries himself with a certain attitude that makes you think: “Good for him.” and it helps him look confident if it wasn't for a weak limp as he walks. And if you are able to tell, you are sure the rest of them can as well.

“Pay up, Johnny.” Ghost says extending his hand to Soap as they sit on the sofa. 

“Fuckin’ he'll, Gaz.” Soap answers, taking his wallet from his back pocket and dropping a £20 on Ghost's hands. 

“You made a bet?” You ask curious sitting on the floor getting your legs under the table, Ghost and Soap are sitting on the sofa, Price sits down on the armchair and Gaz sits on the armrest of the sofa.

“Yeah, about who would break the truce first.” Soap explains and turns to look at Gaz. “I thought you were stronger than this, mate.”

“What truce?” You ask, sending Ghost a quick glance to ask him to play along. He doesn't say anything. 

A beat of silence goes around the room, everyone expecting the other to talk. It is Price that breaks it clearing his throat. “Right, I'll explain it. We talked about you, about how we have been treating you and about how it shouldn't have happened.” 

Your stomach turns at the confession, and a voice screams in your head: “I told you, idiot! Giving yourself like a whore on sale! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!” You hide your hands between your thighs to hide the shaking and swallow the spit pooling in your mouth. 

“Not like that.” A warm hand on the top of your head brings you back. “Try again, Captain. So many ways to phrase it, and you choose the worst.” Ghost says 

Price rubs a hand against his face, exasperated with himself. “What I meant was… that we don't regret what we have done, we regret the way we have done it. Yeah?”

And it reaches your ears, but it doesn't get to your brain. Since the whole ordeal began, the cruel voice in your head that doesn't let you enjoy things has been scratching the walls of your head to try and make you focus on her and let her plant the seed of self-doubt in you. But you pushed her back, and the kisses and caressing of the men in front of you helped greatly. It was like seeing a shadow from the corner of your eyes, but when you turn your head it disappears; but now, hearing from Price that it shouldn't have happened, even if he was just a poor choice of words, it has made you turn your head to your shadow but this time it hasn't disappeared. Instead, it's looking at you and laughing at your face for being stupid. 

“You alright, birdie?” Ghost brushes your hair behind your ear, keeping his hand cupping your jaw and turning your face to look at him. Concern floods his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, but doesn't push it when you nod at him. 

“What we wanted to do, was do the things that we should have done before we got freaky.” Soaps continue. “Go on dates, expend time together… get to know ye. Those things.”

It only fuels your confusion. “What?” You ask looking at Price. “Dates?”

“You… you don't want to?” He asks mirroring your confusion.

“Do I have a say?” You ask, genially confused. And to you, you mean it as in “Do I have the power to choose between offers? Do I have the power to ask for you? Do I deserve more than crumbs of attention and respect?” But to them, it sounds like: “Do I have that power?”, you know, as if you haven’t gotten under their skin and you couldn't move them like puppets at your will and want. 

“I don't understand.” You mumble rubbing your face, eyes burning with tears.

“What it is?” Gaz asks sitting straight, focusing on you. 

“Why?!” You ask a bit louder that wanted. “Why me? Why do you care about me? Because I can understand that I threw myself at you and to never look a gift horse in the mouth, but what I can’t understand is why you would go out of our fucking lane to worry about the fucking shitty horse!”

The tears are flowing freely down your face by now, and you realise that they are all looking at you with expressions you can't read. You have cried in front of them before, but it was out of fear for your life, you are fine with that. But letting them see you cry because you are an idiot that caught feelings? Nah, that's too much. “I'm sorry, I… I need a moment.” You stand up, managing to get out without any of them catching your hand and lock yourself in the bathroom, in the little space between the sink and the bathtub. 

You cry your feelings out, wanting to just dry yourself out before going out, but Ghost beats you to it and knocks on the door. “Can I come in, birdie?”

“The lock doesn't work.” You mumble between sobs.

“I know, that's why I'm asking.” He says, he cracks the door open slowly and sticks his head in looking at you. “Can I come in?”

You nod, and he enters closing the door behind him. He lifts you up from your hands making you whine like a child, sits down where you were and sits you on his lap. “You got a thing for tiny spaces.” 

The TONK sound of Ghost hitting his head on the sink following the curse words makes you chuckle at the ridicule of the situation. Ghost finally settles down, and he cups your face making you lay your head on his chest. 

“What has you so upset, birdie? What is making you so sad?” He asks, the rumble of his voice travelling through your body.

You shrug your shoulders. “I just don't get it… why me?”

“I don't know, birdie… you just are.” He says caressing your face. “I can't explain it, it's just… you. We have been trained and forced to be methodical, use logic, don't get carried away by emotions, years and years of training. And now you are here, and we don't know how to act.”

You bury your face in his chest, taking in the new information, but without interrupting him. “When we entered your flat, Price saw the chair on the balcony and he almost jumped head first just to check if you were on the ground. Gaz has gone against Price's direct orders, and trust me, Gaz would rather cut his own arm than go against Price… Birdie, I'm not going to call it love and act like I know how that works. But don't bury the corpse without killing it first.”

You look up to him, and find him already looking down at you. He gives you a kiss on your forehead through the mask and asks: “Give us a chance, birdie. Please. We are all adults, we'll talk about it. Set bases and rules so everyone is happy and comfortable. But you need to let us try. Only once, birdie. That's all we need.”

Simon's words enter your head, finding the idiot voice that lives inside and slapping her across the face. After a while, you no longer have the need to cry, and even though you are elated by Ghost's comfort, it is not fair to the three men seating in the living room.

You stand up first, Ghost's hand on your back. You grab his hand to help him stand and put the other hand on the edge of the sink so he doesn't hit it again, earning yourself a chuckle from him. 

Soap is the first to see you, sitting with Gaz on the sofa. Price is still in the armchair, smoking a cigar. You walk up to him, picking the cigar from his hand and letting it down on the ashtray. You sit on the armrest of the chair, putting your deets on his lap and your hands between your thighs. 

He looks up to you almost holding your breath, like the next thing that you will say could seal or break the deal. “You don't regret meeting me, right, John?”

His face twitches, as if you had just slapped him across the face, and he quickly shakes his head bringing his arm up around you to move you to his lap keeping you close. “No, dear, no. I could never regret meeting you, I'm sorry I said it like that, I promise I'm not usually such a muppet.” 

“I wanna give it a try.” You say and look up to him. “But I'm scared.”

“You don't need to be, what's scaring you?” He ask looking at your face.

“You don't know me… what if once you get to know me, you don't like what you learn? If you get bored? Or disgusted…” You mumble, talking more and more softly as you bury your face on his neck.

“Now you are just talking nonsense, love.” Price says, cupping your face and peeling your face away from his neck. “And you are thinking too highly of us, what if you are the one who doesn't like us?”

“That's not-” You begin to say, ready to argue that it is not possible to not like them, that they look like they have come out of a firefighter calendar, that they have been nothing but kind and caring with you, that if you found something about them you didn't like it would most likely to bother you enough to break away. But you look at his face, and he has this know-it-all expression that quiets you up. 

“Exactly, love.” He says and lets you hide your face again. You sigh, tired of your feelings and start to stand up. “I'm gonna have a shower.”

“Wait!” Soap says standing up quickly and sprinting to the kitchen, coming back out with different kinds of shampoo and body skin care products. “How about a bath? A bubble bath?” He asks, happy to cheer you up and to have an excuse to mess around with the different liquid. 

You nod quickly smiling widely and watch him run to the bath. Price calls your attention with a tap on your lower back and explains: “Gaz and I need to go back to base, Ghost and Soap will stay with you tonight, that's fine with you?”

You nod again, saying goodbye to both of them, feeling too awkward to hug them because of the newly exposed feeling even if just an hour ago they were balls deep inside you. You run to the bathroom when Soap calls your name.

“Quickly, bonnie. Get in before it goes cold.” He says, satisfied with the sweet smell and bubbly water. “Do you need anything else?”

“Actually, can you lend me some more clothes? I'm pretty sure I have run out of clean clothes and underwear.” You admit, looking a bit ashamed.

“Sure, I'll bring ye some of mine. I'm sure ye'll fill in my knickers just fine with that fine arse of yers.” He mumbles in your ears, earning himself a slap on his biceps as he exits the bathroom to pick up the clothes. He drops them by a little later and lets you to enjoy your bath.

The bath truly helps you relax, of the tightness in your muscles and of the exhausting feelings in your head. It also leaves you room to think about them, to rationalize them. Simon is right, you cannot say no just because you are scared it may not work out in the end, not without trying first.

After some time, the water starts to get cold, so you drain the tub and grab the towel to dry yourself. You look at the clothes that Soap lend you, and realise he only left his briefs and a t-shirt; cheeky bastard. 

As you open the door, the smell of food floats around the whole house and it makes your stomach rumble. Ghost and Soap must be making dinner. So you walk down the hall, entering the kitchen without thinking.

And part of you blames you for it, but another part is really glad you didn't.

Johnny is on his knees, in front of Ghost, getting his mouth fucked by the late one. The wet sounds of Johnny gagging around Ghost’s dick as it hits the back of his throat almost hide the sound of your steps, but not good enough fot Ghost.

“Hi, Birdie.” He groans, caressing Johnny head in such a tender way it clashes with the filthy image. “Are you hungry? Johnny here couldn't wait for dinner.”

“I can see…” You mumble back looking at Soap, unable to peel you away. You are glad you just got out of the tub, being able to attribute your blush to the heat of the bathroom. Still, no bath can explain the way you clench your thighs together, and Ghost chuckles when he notices.

“C’mere, birdie.” He instructs, extending his hand to you. You grab it, feeling him pull you close; his hand moves to your waist, cupping your face with the other. “I really want to kiss you right now, pretty bird”

And you know what he is asking for, to break the truce; because if you initiate it, he is technically not breaking it. And it is cruel, especially to Price that you know is going to be the last one to break it, but right now, with Ghost mask up to his nose and Johnny chocking on his dick, your mind is busy. 

You get on your tip toes, urging Ghost to bend down and he gives you a quick peck on your lips. Just to seal the deal, before he pulls your head from the back of your head making you open your mouth to groan and he gets his tongue inside your mouth, turning the groan into a moan. 

It is such a filthy kiss, its only fitting for a filthy situation that you just yourself into. 

Johnny doesn't last before calling for your attention, but he doesn't call you, instead, he pulls your leg between his and starts humping his leaking dick against you. It makes you look down breaking the kiss and making Ghost look down as well, he chuckles seeing the Scotsman so desperate and grabs a handful on his mohawk making him let go of his dick with a POP sound. “Don't fuck her leg, you fucking mutt” Johnny whines when he grips his hair harder and Ghost looks up to you. You can see the gears spinning inside his head when he looks from you to Soap, both grabbed by the hair, and you are not really surprised when he says. “Get on your knees for me, birdie.”

When you drop to your knees, Ghost pushes you and Soap’s head closer to each other and Soap bites your mouth kissing you as he devours your lips. His knee on the ground is against your cunt, and when he flexes closer to you it makes you moan inside his mouth.

Soon, Soap’s tongue is not the only thing in your mouth and you feel something blunt nudge at the side of your lips. You pull apart an inch, opening your eyes, just in time to see Ghost’s dick slide between Soaps and your mouth. Both tongues getting tangled around his already wet length, Ghost moans without letting go of both of your head. Soap hands find their way to your waist, and start to help you grind yourself against his tigh. 

“She is going to ruin your underwear, Johnny.” Ghost manages to say between grunts and moans. “Better to help her take them off.”

Big hands grab you from under your arms hoisting you up, Ghost holds you against his chest with your back pressed to him and Soap helps you take off your underwear. Just when you are naked from the waist down, you feel Ghost slip his dick between your folds, rubbing your clit on his way forward. His red tips stick out from between your legs, and you can almost feel Soap mouth water and the sight of both your crotch together. “C’mon, Johnny, I didn't tell you to stop sucking.”

Johnny’s tongue is warm against your skin, and for a second when you look down, all you see is Ghost fucking Soap’s mouth through you. Until Ghost begins to thrust, and his tip keeps nudging at your clit and if it is not his tip it’s Soap's tongue running side to side on it. 

Ghost is still hugging you from behind, his face now hidden in your neck moaning little words that don't make sense, you grab his arms trying to keep yourself steady, you can barely reach the floor having to be on your tiptoes on top of Ghost's feet. 

The mix of it all, feeling almost like a fleshlight by Ghost, Soap moaning and gagging so close to your clit and Ghost’s dick rubbing again and again against your clit, has you cumming embarrassedly quickly. And if it wasn't for the way Ghost moans against your neck when you clench your thighs together, pulling Soap’s hair again to keep him from sucking him, basically edging himself not to cum yet, you would be embarrassed. Instead, you are almost ready to cum again in mere seconds.

“It looks like Johnny is a bit needy right now, doll. Do you wanna sit on his dick, hm? Suck my dick while you do? Johnny has been talking nonstop about that little mouth of yours, birdie. Been driving me crazy.” He says as he kisses your neck, leaving it wet with his spit as he barely manages to speak properly. 

Soaps, still on his knees, sits on his feet, cock free and ready for you to sit on it. You hoist his lap, getting your knees on the floor sided to his forcing you to spread your legs. You rest your hands on his knees as you lower yourself, and moan in tandem with Soap once he is completely seated. 

Ghost grabs your hands, almost picking you up, and moves them to his thighs to allow you to support yourself. Soaps begin to move, slowly, letting you get adjusted to the stretch, as he begins to fuck you almost doggy style. It pushes you forward, and you moan against Ghost’s dick making him shudder.

You start to kiss his tip, soon getting your lips around it earning a moan of your name from Ghost. He caresses your head, brushing your hair away from your face. Soap grabs your waist, helping himself fuck you faster, skin slapping against your ass making you moan as you suck Ghost’s dick.

It is almost as thick as Soap's, but it's the way it hits your throats that makes the difference. Tears prick at your eyes, slowly falling down your cheeks, and when Ghost sees them he coos at you as he smears them on your cheek with his thumb.

You can see his half-open mouth thanks to his mask being risen, and you clench your cunt when you see him bite his lips to keep his moans from spilling out. Soap hugs you from behind, bitting your shoulder and begins to piston in and out of you. His hand goes south, rubbing at your clit and you grab Ghost’s thigh sticking your nails in making him hiss almost like a moan. 

“I'm gonna cum all over your pretty face, hm? Painted like a canvas, love.” He groans grabbing your hair. “While Johnny paints you inside, all ours, inside and out, love. Our little birds, all ours.”  He keeps mumbling, taking his dick out to jack it off in front of your face. 

You stick your tongue out while looking at him, and moan when Johnny change his speed, becoming sloppy and switching the speed with slower but deeper thrusts. He moans against your shoulder, biting again hard and that's enough to send you over the edge. Johnny and Ghost following you as if they were waiting for you. 

Ghost spents end up mostly in your mouth, but you feel the hot spurts settle on your face making you close your eyes. Soap sits down, stretching his legs, and he pulls you with him, softening your dick still inside of you. 

“I wish I could send Price a picture right now” Ghost says chuckling looking down at the both of you who chuckle too with difficulty to breath.

“I think… I think we should go shower again, bonnie.” Soaps says behind you, and you can only agree. 

Once cleaned, the three of you sit around the sofa ready to have dinner, quite delicious and gracefully, not burnt. 

“So, bonnie, ye wanna go on date?” Soap asks with his mouth full.

“I was gonna ask first, was swallowing my food.” Ghost says, almost scolding him.

“Actually… I thought about it, and I think I want to go on a date with…

Hii, how are you?!

The next chapter is your choice, bam, bam, baaaammm!!

Let me know if there is any kind of date or anything like that that you would like to happen, hehe.

Also, just an explanation in case anyone was confused. As I said, English is not my first language, which means I don't really know many idioms in English, and that plus the fact that when I can remember how they are I just make up my own, sometimes they lack some sense 🤣.

When in this chapter Ghost says: "But don't bury the corpse without killing it first." I was thinking about the phrase "to sell the bear's skin before catching it", but that one is actually the opposite, it is when you are a bit too optimistic about how things are going to play out. So I don't know how I ended up writing the corpse one, and then I remember the fact that Ghost was buried alive and it just... in my mind it made sense.

Sorry if it doesn't 💗

As always, thank you so much for reading and for commenting, love youu ❤️🌸

Taglist: @pagesfalling @thevoidwriting @darkangel4121 @tf141glory @skyler-loves-rick-grimes @ghostlythots @readerofallthingss @onewattson6529 @mynameismothra @xinyiline @shadowtfpcod @infpt-zylith@renabear88@lolliepopsicle @reap3erslov3 @tooloudarts @dontworryboutitokie @cassiecasluciluce @sodavrr @missmidnight-writes @anirok2 @lilliumrorum @ladyxtiger @multy-fandom-lover @thriving-n-jiving @lotionlamp @spicyspicyliving @xxeiraxx @vampirekilmerfic @keiraslayz

[ratedfleur]

i'm currently watching immaculate rn and i just thought of this thing i wrote in ao3 a few years ago... (also if you are a horror movie enthusiast, that film is honestly a rollercoaster, even i was gagged) (also i know nothing about churches and priests whatsoever so do not expect this to make any sense)

my fic was originally priest!sunghoon and church boy!jake but make it priest!sunghoon and church girl!y/n.

father sunghoon was the youngest priest in the parish, quite the good looking one out of the bunch. the young and old ladies liked to be around father sunghoon for he was the most approachable and the smoothest talker of all.

and there was you. you were the most beautiful among all of the ladies in the church, well respected because of how well dedicated you were when it comes to your bible reading, confessional booths, and you were the one that the children loved to be with when it came to bible reading, and so you could not afford to commit not even a tiny mistake.

sitting in the confessional booth, you quickly did the sign of the cross. your hand were clammy as you bowed your head in shame, "forgive me father for i have sinned, i have not made a confession in 2 weeks. and forgive me father for the lustful thoughts that my mind has created over the course of two weeks."

hearing no response from the priest on the other side of the booth, you resumed with your confession. "i may have not meant to have those kind of thoughts but my mind chooses to take over me when i have such lustful thoughts— just like how jesus does in my daily life. but father i..." you say, suddenly backtracking in your words out of shame.

"speak." the voice says from the other side.

taking a shaky breath, you shamefully shut your eyes as you clasped your hands together. "father, i have had lustful thoughts about a priest in the church and i am ashamed of myself. i know i shouldn't have and yet—"

"who is thy priest?" the voice cuts you off.

shaking your head despite knowing he can't see you, "i— i have dreamt of father touching me as i layed in bed, merely in my sleeping garments—"

"i said, who is this priest." he spoke once more.

"father sunghoon, father.. i have dreamt and yearned for him to touch me, shamelessly touch and tell me to let me cum as i read my bible before i sleep. i dreamt that he would put a baby in me for us to be wed in this church.." you say with a quiet voice, eyes brimming with tears out of shame.

"come to the other side of the booth for i shall bless you." the voice says.

looking up to look at the latticed opening, you barely see the silhouette of the person on the other side. "b-but i thought i needed to do it here—" you say before he cut you off once more as he spoke.

"come here."

following his orders, you quickly stepped out of the booth and went to the other side, merely a few steps away from the door before father stepped out, only for you to see that it was father sunghoon all this time.

"kneel for me and i'll make those wet dreams of yours come to life."

[squirrellypoo]

The official AMC account just posted this BTS photo of the Theatre des Vampires set.

Most interesting to me is that you can see they retained the “confessional booth” box seats on the ground floor sides which were a feature of the original Grand Guignol:

“Boxes for the audience in the rear of the theater drew similarities to those of confessionals with further ornate woodwork and iron meshes tying them to the rest of the neo-gothic experience. Even the seats were much like those of pews.”

BUT - if you zoom in on the BTS photo booths, the screen and the globe lights seem to match where Armand is sitting in the few frames from the latest trailer!?

GIF from @mademoisellebianx

So what do we think Armand is so distraught over in the Theatre timeline?! 🤔

[bhaalsdeepbat]

I'm going to make some of you feel really fucking old:

Choose your adventure Quizilla long fic

full offense but none of you would have ever survived fanfiction.net in 2009

[too-antigonish]

Sunday Confessional: Feeling English…

I'm having feelings about the UK in general and England in particular because one of my distant English cousins just passed away. She lived a long, full life and reached a very ripe old age, but over the past few years I've very much wanted to visit her in person (it's been decades since I last saw her) and now I won't be able to.

Worth Clough Cottages where my 4x great-grandparents lived. Built 1814 by Lord Warren-Bulkeley for the miners at the Lord and Lady Coal Pits.

Part of my family came from Stockport to the US in 1862. They were coal miners in Poynton (now part of "Greater" Stockport) when the Lancashire Cotton Famine hit because of the American Civil War. What to do? Pull up stakes and become coal miners in America! Which was having a Civil War!

Wisdom of the move and its timing aside, the funny thing is that the folks who stayed in England and the folks that went to America stayed in touch. In fact we're still in touch 163 years later! I have copies of letters from the original siblings from the 1870s. I have newspaper clippings about various voyages across the Atlantic for visits in the late 1800s and early 1900s. In 1939, just before the start of WWII, two of them—David and Marjorie—came for an extended stay. I have the photographs.

1939 Picnic: English cousins with the Illinois cousins in California

Then came the war. David wrote lots of letters about what things were like in the UK and how he thought the US would have to join the fight. Of course we eventually did. My grandfather ended up in the army and was stationed in England and later in various parts of Europe. He spent all of his leave living with the English cousins and got to know them very, very well indeed.

After the war there were many letters, packages (especially while there was still rationing in the UK), and as often as possible, visits in both directions. One of those visits included me. It was the last trip that my grandparents were able to make to the UK. We spent three weeks in various parts of England, Wales, and Scotland but a full week of that time was spent staying with the cousins—who by now had moved to Bradford and Derby.

House in Bradford where my cousins lived

It was an amazing trip—even if we did spend what I thought was a rather excessive amount of time touring historic coal mines. This was perhaps because my beloved grandfather was only one generation away from the original family business and the side of his family that hadn't mined coal in Poynton? Well, they mined coal in Merthyr Tydfil. 

Still, I managed to see enough of the above-ground part of the UK that you could probably attribute my undergrad in medieval studies to that single trip alone. Coming home, the US was just so painfully *new* and I've never quite gotten over it.

For a whole variety of complicated reasons, I haven't been able to make it back to the UK since. I'm still holding out hope that this will change at some point because I'd *really* like to visit again someday! Until then, I'll do video calls and trade photos with the remaining cousins and we'll see how much longer we can make the 163 year streak last.

Baby Antigonish. At the Bingley Five-Rise Locks on the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Steepest flight of locks in the UK.

[grassbreads]

@helpfulbug tagged me to share my favorite albums that came out in 2024! Thank you for the tag!!

Mine are:

Beyond Beyond Beyond by The Crane Wives

All Hell by Los Campesinos!

As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again by The Decemberists

Alligator Bites Never Heal by Doechii

Yesterwynde by Nightwish

Dreamachine by Habibi

Unreal Unearth: Unending by Hozier

GLOOM DIVISION by I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

What Happened to the Heart? by AURORA

Honorable mentions and bonus thoughts under the cut:

Honorable Mentions:

Hayfields by Yaelokre

Mononoke The Movie: The Phantom in the Rain Original Soundtrack (preview) by Taku Iwasaki

Antimai by The Dear Hunter

MEmento·MORI by 珂拉琪Collage

Act V: Hymns with the Devil in Confessional by The Dear Hunter

Okantomi by Okan

Hayfields and the Mononoke Karakasa OST are honorable mentions because they're a short EP and a preview respectively, not full-length albums. The rest of the honorable mentions are all albums that were not released in 2024, but were nonetheless so pivotal to me this year that I can't not shout them out. Antimai my album of the century.

I also listened to Salt For Salt by Brown Bird just as many times as any of the listed honorable mentions, though that particular fixation has been going on for longer than just 2024.

Including Unreal Unearth in the main list is maybe a bit of a cheat, but Through Me (The Flood) and Nobody's Soldier are my two favorite Hozier songs from this era by far, so Unending is the One True Version of the album for me, and that version did in fact release in 2024 ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Also full disclosure, I didn't actually get around to listening to Alligator Bites Never Heal until like this week, so it wasn't really a 2024 album for me personally, but it blew me away to such a degree that it wins a spot in my 2024 top 9 by virtue of release date anyway. I probably would have included Something for Everybody by Sammy Rae & The Friends or Death or Glory by Palaye Royale in the list if it weren't for the late addition of Doechii, so consider those albums one last honorable mention.

I'll tag @scallioncreamcheesebagel, @aguacerotropical, and anyone else who might want to yap about music with me :).

[heroinuser88]

Did you know that long term alcohol use is worse for your brain & organs than long term clean diacetylmorphine use? Or most opioids in general? Did you know that alcohol kills more people annually than any other drug? So why is it that the former is legal, socially acceptable & advertised on every street corner & the latter is unfairly stigmatized, criminalized & demonized? Did you know opioids use to make great antidepressants & were once legal & used for such in the early 1900s? There are many legal & commonly available things that are addictive & more destructive on your physical health. Yet the masses have been conditioned to believe opiates/opioids are some of the most "dangerous" drugs. Swiss study showing 15 years of daily heroin use resulted in no adverse health complications - https://harmreductionjournal.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12954-020-00412-0 "No serious heroin-related medical complication occurred during the 15-year window of observation among inmates with heroin-assisted treatment. Their work performance was comparable to that of the reference group." Opioids as antidepressants - https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5189718/ " Historically, MOR agonists have also been applied in the treatment of mood disorders, notably including major depressive disorder (MDD). Indeed, until the mid-20th century, low doses of opium itself were used to treat depression, and the so called “opium cure” was purportedly quite effective.9 With the advent of tricyclic antidepressants (TCAs) in the 1950s however, the psychiatric use of opioids rapidly fell out of favor and has been largely dormant since, likely due to negative medical and societal perceptions stemming from their abuse potential. However, there have been scattered clinical reports (both case studies and small controlled trials) since the 1970s indicating the effectiveness of MOR agonists in treating depression. The endogenous opioid peptide β-endorphin, as well as a number of small molecules, have all been reported to rapidly and robustly improve the symptoms of MDD and/or anxiety disorders in the clinical setting, even in treatment resistant patients.10–17 These results have been recapitulated in rodent models, where a variety of MOR agonists show antidepressant effects.18–21 " One of the reasons heroin even became so heavily criminalized originally was so that they could target anti-war hippies & black communities - https://www.vera.org/reimagining-prison-webumentary/the-past-is-never-dead/drug-war-confessional “You want to know what this [war on drugs] was really all about? The Nixon campaign in 1968, and the Nixon White House after that, had two enemies: the antiwar left and black people. You understand what I’m saying?

We knew we couldn’t make it illegal to be either against the war or black, but by getting the public to associate the hippies with marijuana and blacks with heroin, and then criminalizing both heavily, we could disrupt those communities. We could arrest their leaders, raid their homes, break up their meetings, and vilify them night after night on the evening news. 

Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did.” - Nixon's Adviser The fact that you can drink yourself to death with alcohol or consume various toxic chemicals pushed by big names, but using opioids to enhance your life (be it pain or depression or both) makes you a "junkie" and a "criminal" who "needs help". This is a total hypocritical violation of people's right to bodily autonomy & their right to pursuit of happiness. END THE DRUG WAR

[stephensmithuk]

The Valley of Fear: The Valley of Fear

Is there not some standard rule not to have a chapter title the same as your main book title - because Doyle's done this twice!

Bondage at this point meant the state of being slaves or otherwise imprisoned. I do not know when it began to acquire its modern more sexual meaning.

Winchester rifles began production in 1866, so the police would have had access to them. Probably the original 1866 model, not the more famous 1873 one.

A flagstaff is another term for a flagpole.

Excommunication in Christianity is where someone is banned from receiving Communion/Mass/the Eucharist and other sacraments (including the Last Rites) for offences against the Church. They would also be barred from social events, shunned by their neighbours (the Amish call it "shunning") and lose the right to a church burial.

The sort of things you can get excommunicated for is:

Administering communion or taking confession when not authorised to do so.

A priest who ordains a woman and the woman in question.

Violating the Seal of the Confessional.

A priest absolving someone they have had an affair with. Remember Catholic priests are supposed to be celibate.

Procuring an abortion.

Heresy.

Refusing to recognise Papal authority.

Physically attacking the Pope.

Sometimes the process is mandatory, sometimes it involves a judicial process.

The ban does not end one's status as a Christian and Catholics would still be obligated to attend Mass. It is also not irrevocable; it can be revoked, and the person have their full rights restored, after repentance. It should be considered a "sin bin", so to speak.

The list of famous people who have been excommunicated is long, including a number of monarchs:

A drygoods store sold consumer goods.

Russia was of course a highly authoritarian country at the time this story is set and many Russians, Jews in particular, would emigrate to the US.

Common cells are far more an American thing than a British one. It would be unheard of here to have a single lock-up for a group of prisoners.

Mattresses were commonly filled with straw and hay, at least for poor people. Or you could just sleep on actual straw.

This must have been fun for those with allegries.

Eyewitness evidence can be unreliable even in a good light, which is why more reliable evidence like forensics or CCTV is preferred today. This case is of course far dodgier.

[fandomnerd9602]

Admission

Novitiate!Wanda x Male Reader

For @lifespectator and @aloneodi

It had to be some Divine conspiracy. The way that you and novitiate Wanda happened to step out of that confessional booth at the same time. It was as if the Lord Himself was pulling the strings to bring the two of you together.

“Hey” you manage to speak.

“Hello” she smiles back.

How could it be? That she fell for you as much as you had fallen for her. And yet something about it felt so forbidden. True she had not taken her vows yet but you still felt that she might as well have.

“were you in that confessional booth?” Wanda asks, a little blush making its way across her angelic features.

“I-I was filling in for Father Wong” you stammer trying to somehow explain the whole thing. “It’s not like I was trying to lure you away from your vows or anything like that” you stammer nervously.

“ is it really that strange?” Wanda takes a step towards you, “ that I fell for you and you for me?”

“How could I not?” You breath out.

She takes your hand. “Due to my vows, the only kiss I can settle for is this”

She leans the palm of her hand against yours. A holy kiss.

“If that’s the only kiss we can have, then I count it a blessing” you whisper.

“Good day, Y/N” Wanda sadly whispers as she turns to leave.

“Good day…sister Wanda” you let out a sad, miserable breath.

Wanda found herself separating from you. Different tasks taking her off in different directions. Time that she was getting further away from you, and yet I just made her heart grow all the more fonder for you. She couldn’t deal with it, the feeling of being so far away from you was too much for her to bear on some days.

If only she could realize how painful it was for you too. You found yourself your mind drifting away from your own studies.

You found yourself walking towards Wong’s office. He was rather happy to see his favorite apprentice.

“Y/N!” He laughs as he pulls you into a fatherly hug, “what brings you by this morning?”

“I have to leave Father Wong” you whisper.

“Why? Do you feel the Lord calling you elsewhere?”

“ I feel Him calling me towards someone” you admit. “I’ve fallen in love with sister Wanda.”

Wong leans back in his seat, “Wanda Maximoff?”

You nod, a feeling of guilt passing over you. Your mentor simply removes his glasses and smiles.

"I knew there was something between you two" he lets out a soothing chuckle.

"Wait what?"

"You know the Scriptures never say one has to be celibate for all your life? I don't know how that even got started"

"So it's not wrong to love Wanda?"

"No" he affirms you, "if anything I think it's why the Creator told me to put you two together. You make quite the duo. I've never seen the sunday school more joyful than when you and Wanda are together with those kids."

Wong pulls a paper off his desk, "for some reason, His Excellency the Pope Stephen sent me this email today. Said I should be the first to know"

Wong hands the paper to you which you read aloud, "this paper decrees that celibacy is meant for a season, not for life. It's no longer required for priesthood or the convent"

"Run to her, Y/N" Wong summarizes with a smile, "the parish has been thriving with you and Wanda"

"Thank you sir!" you run out of Wong's office and straight to the chapel, briefly passing Sister Natasha who gives you a knowing smirk.

You find Wanda on her knees at the altar. Even with her back to you, you can hear her tears.

"Sister Wanda?" you call out to her. Wanda gasps, immediately she bolts up.

"I-I'm no longer Sister Wanda." she admits, "I've taken a teaching job here on the parish's grounds but I cannot join the convent."

"And I can't join the priesthood... well at least originally" you walk up to her. "Wanda I love you. And I know that the Creator put us together for a reason. It's some divine conspiracy how but all I know is that I never want to part from your side"

Wanda tears up, a gentle smile forming on her face, "I don't wish to leave your side either."

She holds up her hand, wishing for a holy kiss. You clasp your hand with hers and pull her into an actual kiss. Wanda melts in your arms, holding onto you for dear life.

"Now I know that was ordained," she giggles, "because that felt heavenly"

You take her chin in your hand and kiss her again.

The gentle early morning light shines through the stained glass window and right onto you and the novitiate who stole your heart. It's as if the Creator Himself was smiling on the two of you.

[vilsoo]

୨⎯ CHAPTER TWO ⎯୧

incubus!fushiguro toji x fem!reader

꒰ ✟ ꒱ GENRE: horror, demon au, nsfw 18+, porn with plot.

꒰ ✟ ꒱ SUMMARY: Sex demons are not as provocative as you think they are. Not only do they engage in sexual acts with humans, they thrive off their flesh and haunt them in their nightmares. When an incubus disguised as a Reverend turns a hungry eye on one of the parishioners, gruesome events at the cathedral slowly unfold; blasphemy, gore, and terror…

꒰ ✟ ꒱ CHAPTER WARNINGS: blasphemy, WC: 2,396

PREVIOUS • MASTERLIST • NEXT CHAPTER

written in toji's pov, narration style similar to the Netflix show, "You." pov may also change in future chapters. this takes place in a fictional setting; St. Reze University & Cathedral.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession..."

Father Getou Suguru, the priest who ordained me as a clergy member and who I work for now, would sometimes put me in charge of confessionals whenever he’s busy. Obviously I hated it. Sitting in this mahogany booth, listening to the sins and confessions of these miserable penitents that don’t even matter to me. Sometimes out of boredom I'd feel tempted to manipulate them out of their faith, but I couldn't afford to lose my job. I had no choice.

This evening I was starting to feel a bit sluggish while confessionals were ongoing. Some were short, some were emotional, and some just didn't know what to say in the midst of nervousness or inexperience. I didn’t even have to say much except for making up their penance as I try not to fall asleep. But as I sat down and pondered while this young male penitent babbled to me, the memory of you on your knees before me during Eucharist… haunted me.

“…But this one nightmare I had a few days ago, Reverend— call me dramatic, I don’t care… but when I woke up, I woke up literally gasping for my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about it that I got so distracted in class. It disturbs me when I even think about it. What should I do?”

And suddenly a wave of clarity washed over me when the male’s unsettled voice blended with the flashback of us under the rain hours ago. It took awhile to register what he said, especially when he mentioned nightmares.

Across the decorative screen, I frowned and remained silent. It was a little frustrating taking my focus off of you and onto another concern. Perhaps this evening confession had slightly intrigued me, especially knowing the true, daunting origins of nightmares that have been ongoing. And not just any plain nightmare that adults get from stress or medications. Majority of people tend to forget those that come and go, but if they continue lurking within one’s mind for several weeks…

“Hm. You got insomnia or something, kid?” I inquired, deciding not to think too deep about this. Whatever the fuck I smoked earlier had me overthinking too much. I’m peeved about it.

“Um. I'm twenty two," the man demurred. "But, no… I don’t have insomnia, surprisingly.”

“Then don’t sweat it. Just know that you can expect spiritual nourishment in a religious campus like this," I assured sardonically. “But in case that doesn’t work… start booking your therapy sessions.”

“Therapy?” he marveled. “Wow. This is the first time a Reverend gave me a penance like that. I thought you were gonna suggest something, like, plain old prayer and scripture.”

“Churches are all full of narcissists like that, kid. Now end off with a prayer and go.”

The man thanks me and proceeds with his final prayers and blessings before leaving. I sat alone in the booth for what felt like more than five minutes, waiting for any penitent left to come in. I couldn’t sense any human presence roaming about the ambulatory and transepts nearby, which had me relieved. But just as I was about to open the door and make my way from my debased duties as a Reverend, I can hear someone scurrying towards the booth and entering inside.

I sighed exasperatingly and cursed under my breath, throwing my head back against the mahogany wall and sulked. Though it was strange that my heightened senses weren’t able to detect anyone outside the booth, I was feeling rather passive aggressive. Whoever this person was caught me off guard completely; it’s always been a bad habit of mine to put my pride first before anything.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession."

That voice. That silky, radiant honey and velvety voice— You. I decided to not speak and peered through the latticed opening into the opposite side of the dark wooden compartment and see that it was really you as the penitent. My penitent. An opportunity for me to see you plead for advice and dwell in your personal relationship with your god. My disinterest may or may not have been lifted after recognizing you…

“I confess that I have been distracted from my relationship with you,” you continued bashfully. “All of my time has been taken up by school, work, the people in my life… I even encountered someone that I couldn't stop thinking about the whole night."

I shifted in my seat, the wood slightly creaking as I crossed my legs and waited for you to elaborate. My heart felt heavy with anticipation, but I still remained silent. I could see you, but you couldn’t see me. I must admit, the way you’re indirectly speaking to me right now did bring a little amusement…

“He’s… he’s a Reverend for the church that I’ve never seen before. An older man with a gravely voice and a scar on the corner of his mouth. But there was something about him that makes me feel, I don’t know— bewitched, probably? Is that the right word? Well, I couldn’t focus during the Eucharist because of my… unwanted lust for him…”

After indulging in your confessions and finally hearing your lascivious truth, what you confessed to me seemed to bewitch me as well. And I felt a growing flame of rage from allowing this to happen to me, intoxicating my inhibitions like fire to gasoline, stinging me like push pins sliding into my skin. After our unexpected encounter tonight, all you could ever think about was me, just how all I could ever think about was you.

“I always come on Sundays. But this is my first time coming to the Saturday sermon, which means I might never see him again. I ask for your forgiveness of my sins, father. I also pray for your guidance to avoid whatever leads me to sinful thoughts and temptations like this. You are my god. I would never worship another being like you. In his name, my god, have mercy.”

You left the booth shortly after that, not giving me the chance to speak at all. Surprisingly that was the first confessional where I didn't have to respond to my penitent and only remained silent. Props to you for making my job easier.

But after hearing you beg to your god to avoid the sinful thoughts of lust and covet because of me… I've never felt so captivated over this. Over a human. You were the key to my dark little fairy tale that I'm so aching to taste. A chance for a lost little lamb to experience danger, corruption… and sin.

The way you’ve been provoking me tonight has me infuriated, I admit. My ongoing battle of cunning, dark, and sinister thoughts within my conscience, where I’d be tempted to corrupt these Catholic sheeps for my own satisfaction. Now I’m the corrupted one. I hate you for that. You're so ashamed to face sin, ashamed to face me. If I am your sin, then you're my impiety; I will forever have irreverence for your god without giving a damn. And what every demon like me caters to mortals, we fulfill them until they're dripping with sin and corruption.

When I left the booth and wandered down the nave, I sat on the front pew and grunted in exhaustion. I sat there for awhile, arching my neck back against the top edge like I was floating. Manspreading, my hands slid into my pockets then halted when I felt something. Your rosary.

I scrutinized it once again. Immediately my mind is cascaded by the thought of you during communion. You looked at me like I was no stranger, drinking the sight of me instead of that holy wine. A glimpse sublime, the most hypnotically sensual thing I’ve seen in this life. So ruthless of you to do. I find myself smitten by it when I play it in my mind, sanctifying me more than any holy concept in this church. I just couldn't get enough. I just couldn't stop replaying it in my head…

I glanced down at my slacks. When you looked at me drinking that wine on your knees… Oh, I was a man gone wild. Arousal had blossomed in my pelvis like an unwanted guest. My vivid imagination of you right there, right between my legs, kissing and worshiping me like how you kiss and worship the grace of your god. The never-ending eye contact. Bestowing that sweet mouth for my cock until I fuck into your throat…

Suddenly there was a noise. A noise that sent the synapses of my brain frozen, immediately taking my hand off my slacks and darting my head to the left. A strange echo reverberated through the stair tower. I held my breath and tried to make out another sound that would come from downstairs. Such eerie sounds don't really bother me, but it made me realize I wasn't the only one here at church late at night.

At first there was a hiss-like sound— like a giant serpent slithering, or the sharp growl of a feral beast. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination fucking with me again, but such grotesque noise made me think someone's flesh was getting torn apart, followed by a prowling snarl.

There were faint screams, similar to the faint screams of the putrid souls back in Hell. But I couldn’t exactly tell because of the incense on the altar taking over my senses. My heart rate staggered and I could feel my lungs tightening from holding my breath. I was slightly perturbed, I admit. But just as I was about to stand up and investigate, a soft-spoken voice was suddenly heard from my right side.

“Toji?”

I averted to the opposite direction as if I was pulled back into a quieter reality, seeing a brunette woman in a habit. Her pale face emanated from the dark corners, approaching closer to the pew I sat at.

"Oh. It's you." The corner of my mouth stretched to a small smile as Sister Shoko Ieiri stood nearby, shoving the pearl rosary in my pockets. "What'cha doing here so late, hm?"

"I could ask you the same thing,” Shoko taunted. "I was closing the church and then I found you here. Were you on confessional duty?"

I nodded, letting her sit beside me and sighed out of exhaustion. Something shiny from her chest caught my eye— a hematite and aurora crystal bead rosary with a sterling silver pendant. It was much larger than the wooden rosary she would usually carry around. I watched as she weakly twisted it between her fingers, her expression growing melancholic.

"Everything alright?" I spoke low, trying my best to be sympathetic for the nun. She remained inanimate for awhile, like she was lost in her own complicated thoughts.

“Well, I’ve been getting less sleep..."

"Why's that?"

“…I’ve been feeling a little sick lately.” Sister Shoko rubbed her eyes and sniffled. “I’m gonna be locking the doors now, so you coming?”

This woman was obviously lying. However, I didn't really care that much to force her to open up to me. My intentions aren’t to get too involved with humans and their problems, especially with Shoko since she has a lot weighing down on her shoulders. As merciful as I can be, I followed her and waited as she locked the church doors outside.

"Want me to walk you to your car?" I ask.

Shoko hauled the keys off the doors to the narthex, slightly turning her face to me. “Uh, sure," she vacillated, smiling weakly. "I didn't take you as that kind of guy, honestly."

I pushed my shoulder off the walls and head down to the parking lot, my hands fidgeting with your rosary in my pocket. Then I kept thinking about what I've heard at the staircase tower near the cathedral’s balcony, glancing at every corner warily. The winds were small tonight, a tranquil stillness of the dark night surrounding us both while the beams of the moon shatter the sky.

"So. How are you and Sister Utahime?" I inquired, breaking the silence and my thoughts.

The brunette nun smiled down at the gravelly pavement, softly scoffing as a shade of red glowed at her cheeks. "Ah, you know. We're doing good. Thinking about moving in together next year."

"Oh. You could've brought her with you tonight, you know."

“I know," she pouted. "But she's usually asleep at this time and I didn't want to bother her. What about you, Fushiguro?"

"Hm?"

"Do you have any girl on your mind right now?" she simpered, pretending to act like some nosy high school girl. "C'mon, you sure look like you can pull anyone."

At first, I thought she was bluffing. "Nah," I replied, clutching the crucifix of your rosary chiseled firmly and sharp to my fingertips.

We finally reached her car, waiting as she fumbled with her keys to unlock it. "You sure?" she teased. "What about that girl I saw with you earlier today for the Eucharist?"

I deadpanned. "What girl?"

Shoko's shoulders dropped in disappointment. "Are you serious? The girl that drank from your wine! I've seen the way you looked at her."

I gazed into the sky as if I was pretending to remember. "Oh. Her," I spoke slowly. "I barely even know her, Shoko."

The brunette pulled her car door open. "Well, when I saw you two, it definitely looked like more than that."

"That’s insane. All she did was take the drink, what made you come up with that?” I say sardonically.

“Oh, don’t gaslight me, Fushiguro.” I wait as she stepped inside to the driver's seat and turned on the engine. "But, I thank you for keeping me company tonight.”

I smiled weakly, disregarding everything that she just speculated. “No problem. Have a goodnight.”

“You too, Toji.”

I close the door for her and watch as the nun drives away, left alone under the pale moonlight. I turn my head at the cathedral again for awhile, scanning the east stair tower outside. If the doors were unlocked and I had the motivation to investigate where that noise came from, I would've done so already. But I decided to drop it for now…

What am I to do with a stranger like you from now on?

TAGS: @suget @azanthys @haezen @heavenlyevil @saturniac @vampnyx @killzenin @diorsbrando @endurablerose @slut-manifesto @maxytx-blog @sugucidal

ALL WORKS BELONG TO VILSOO/POISEUNS © 2023. originally published April 10, 2021. do not steal, plagiarize, or translate without permission. do not repost or share any of my works where minors have access.

[pontevoix]

curtains are drawn, & the lights are switched off. even in the dark, armin can see the way that old movie posters curl at the corners when he steps into the room, he. if armin were to guess, the posters have had residency on the walls for at least ten years. it’s a childhood bedroom that feels like a sickroom - the way that the bedding is starting to smell like sweat & salt & the way that the room feels abandoned.

as far as armin can tell, eren has sequestered himself in his room in carla's house for two weeks now. he forgets to eat, forgets to shower. carla says that she hasn't smelled tobacco or flavored smokes, so even addictive habits of comfort are cast aside. eren has never done well with nicotine cravings. it makes him restless, & armin sees none of that now.

as far as armin can tell, eren has resigned himself to playing dead. to sucking old memories out of a childhood room & imagining that he is dead, dead, dead.

it sticks stones into the pit of armin’s stomach. it sticks cotton to back of his throat. for a minute, he thinks that he can’t do this. he’s not equipped to come here, uninvited, & pretend like he’s enough to usher in reparations.

armin’s body is not his own when he steps into the sickroom, when his socked feet tread a path against scratched hardwood. he swears that he can’t do this.

the memories are still coming to him. they’re still striking lighting down his spin & making old memories a vivid thing, making them a second life.

if eren were to look at him now, he’s not sure how he could look at the scar at his neck & stand steady now that eren knows. or at least, armin presumes that he knows. he assumes that eren remembers the origins of the mark, that eren remembers that he has been capable of massive bloodshed. that he knows that he had not allowed himself to survive long enough to earn a death declared by trial & jury, knows that he had managed to wage war so terrible that he left himself standing alone & redhanded.

still. armin should have done better the first time. he should have recognized the signs before eren had devolved, before he split down the paths, & shared his voice with a cursed god. he should have negotiated better than he did, trusted eren less. in this life, he should have done better to prevent the return of memories, though the memories were always inevitable. if armin hadn’t been enough to trigger the memories, certainly someone else would have been.

eren was always going to remember. he had carried the weight of three of the nine. & he had had loved too fiercely, so there was never any chance that he would escape remembering.

armin’s feet carry him anyway as though he were walking into a confessional. he can’t do this, he thinks. this is not a holy space. it’s a sickroom, but eren has always been the center of gravity. dead or alive, he is enough to pull those around him. even in this life, armin doesn’t think he could refuse eren properly. he doesn’t think he can break orbit.

but he can at least try to do better than he did, can try to remember old strategies that he learned as commander, as a survivor of the war. this way, he can try to prevent damage before it’s happened.

his feet bring him to the bed. uninvited, he sits at the corner of the mattress. absently, he realizes that eren might mistake him for his mother - he hadn't announced himself. he’s not sure how to announce himself. saying a simple greeting like hey feels inadequate for addressing catatonia, for the type of grief that aligns with culpability.

they sit in silence for too long. eren doesn’t look at him, & armin keeps staring at curled poster corners.

but then armin’s phone dings an email notification in his pocket & gives him away. he flinches visibly, & he finds himself that he’s grateful that his expression is invisible in the dark room.

still, there is enough light creeping in from the bottom of the eren’s bedroom door & from his alarm clock that armin can see eren draw his knees closer to his chest.

‘ sorry, ‘ armin finally says as himself. his voice cracks a little — as though the silence they had shared had been enough to dry him, his voice, of his ability to speak comfortably. he tries to purse his lips into a smile that’s comforting, but it goes unseen. ‘ for intruding. your mom said it was okay, i think. she’s worried. but that’s what moms do, right ? ‘

when he’s nervous, when his voice dries out . . . he rambles. armin always remembers carla to be someone who worries for her son, for his suffering. he doesn’t really remember his own mother as ever having hovered the way that carla does. his mother is a warm presence, but she has never hovered. she has never worried. her warmth is the consistency of distance, & carla hovers in a way that she becomes warm. she is fireside on a cold night.

regardless, it’s a poor way to announce himself. armin surrenders. he sighs & surrenders & scoots himself backwards until his back is aligned with the wall. the motion makes a worn pillow squeeze into the gap between the mattress & the wall.

he sits, & eren lays defensive beside him. they sit in silence for too long. eren doesn’t look at him, & armin keeps staring at curled poster corners. he can’t do this, but he can at least try to do better than he did.

hearing his voice is enough to make eren go rigid, & armin thinks that he might startle enough to go on defense, to raise his fists — but eren regains himself & tries to fall back into catatonia. i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody, eren finally says as though it will force his muscles to relax. as though it will be a convincing enough statement to make armin leave.

i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody. *eren & armin ; for @chaoslulled

eren’s voice is enough to startle armin’s attention away poster corners. his gaze jumps to eren, to the base of his neck where his hair falls towards the pillow & exposes the mark of damnation & death against his his throat.

instead, he draws his knees to his chest & imagines himself small & thinks of his nausea when he remembered, when eren had shown him that portrait of the colossal titan.

he stares at the mark.

‘ i know, ‘ he concedes. it surprises him how steady his voice sounds. ‘ i think . . . you’ve felt like that before. & i’m really sorry. ‘

they sit in silence for too long. eren doesn’t look at him. armin doesn’t try to apologize for more. apologies only go so far.he doesn’t try to talk about remembering more directly than what he already says. but he stares at the mark & feels calm steal over him. he’s always been good at crisis. he’s learned to be good at crisis.

so he crosses a boundary & ignores catatonia. he presses his fingers against the base of eren’s neck, against stray strands of hair, & against the death mark. eren’s skin feels clammy. he still feels alive, even if he’s trying to imagine that he’s dead, dead, dead.

‘ you know something ? i’m really glad to see you. it makes me really glad to see you, ‘ he muses.

saying it helps. saying it settles some of the weight in the pit of his stomach. armin unravels, stretches his legs out straight. he wiggles his socked toes & settles so that he might become a fixture for as long as needed.

i can't really talk about it. not to you, not to anybody, eren said. & it’s still not enough to make armin leave.

[dog-uncrushed]

who tf do u address in these texts posts... tone more private / confessional given that ur reader is absent / general / not one person but for the same reasons ur tone is more public... so i text post when, when i dont feel as if there is any particular one that could receive my message; or at least no particular one right now, as i write. but still i have something to say and a weight on my chest that i can divest, dislocate by writing; by a writing that is a guérison, that alleviates and assures. that tells one that one is not mad.

Derrida says that the sentence is in essence normal; normativity is built into it, whereas madness is silence. Madness is the silence that surrounds each sentence; it is the sentence's envelope; normality is enveloped by madness. that was clear to me last night / early this morning. I was largely silent; others as well. and whoever talked was normal and trying to talk was an attempt to be normal. but for me, then and there, it was a failing task. I was better silent. As were others. and there were bonds in our mutual silence; but fraught bonds, glimpses of bonds given that they were bonds that could not broach the silence which was their medium and thus they were denied the utterance which would officiate those bonds as bonds as such. One can make no promises in silence, except perhaps one can promise through silence to remain silent; but this is a promise one must always break. Perhaps Lee Lozano was able to accomplish something like this (she gave up talking to women). In silence one can of course bond, or here it would be better to say bind, with touch; an embrace can promise silently. Yet such acts are public to a fault; they ask to be hidden. We go into bedrooms and close doors, shut blinds. Their act testifies to something; to a bond or better to a binding that is not yet a bond, that could become a bond provided something was said, that a bond was brokered by words. What does a kiss officiate? We all of us very often lie with a kiss. We are forced to kiss (mainly cheeks). Judas of course, lied with a kiss.

But now I have digressed too far; what I want to write –– what I want to recollect -- is catching the face of E. with a throw of my eyes. He was obscure in the dullness of an audience; which is to say he was at that moment an auditor, like most of us were, to what was more or less a dialogue between two, a dialogue that gave the room its orientation; a verbal volley across a north-western diagonal, around which we, the audience, were the oval perimeter. An uncanny dyad of speakers (two gingers) occupied the two poles of that oval. I threw my eyes across the circumference of that oval and caught E. almost as if he was outside himself, or at least outside the confines of that room and that context. He was in a word lost to mad silence. And it was this mad silence that was in a flash vanished by a quickening of his eyes, a quickening which was the echo of my darting glance. It was the quickening of a fright that had forgotten what it was to be seen, that equally had forgotten what it was to see. This fright restored, to the face which had been the place of that now vanished silence, a mask. The mask that restores to one the false frame of normality behind which what one is (madness) disappears. This mask is in turn a shelter which invites a new silence to take off behind the mask. The mask thus, in its welcoming of silence, gives birth again to the madness against which it is originally constituted.

That momentary ocular skirmish, which no doubt brought some minimum of shame to E. (quite without my intending), was enough in the end to bring E. to speech. It was enough to prompt him, however indirectly, to muster the courage to speak, which in this moment must have become urgent for him. To speak was now for him a way to provide counter-testimony to what the throw of my eyes had briefly and irrefutably captured: that he for a moment had lost all power; that he was briefly lost to the depth of a mad silence. The urgency which called him to make this testimony we must regard as unequivocally false. It was the startled urgency of an Ego that had just now caught itself sleeping on the job. A reflexive jolt of repression reawakened it from the torpid silence it was just lost to. The Ego’s attempt to testify against its madness, is as a sign of the madness which preceded it, pathetically but another of madness’s continuations.

Another is different in her silence. She is quite exemplary in her silence. In fear of praising her, I will say nothing else

[tdvotes]

Counting the Votes, s1e21

Welcome back to... Total! Drama! Counting... the Votes! Today you will undergo a Trial by Tri-Armed Triathlon! This episode was chock full of inconsistencies and general weirdness when compared to the rest of the season, so let's try to wade through it all together.

Invincibility: None

Received a marshmallow: Leshawna, Duncan, Heather, Owen

Final marshmallow: Gwen

Eliminated: Geoff

Who voted for who and why? This was one of those votes that was based on the assumption that the final episode would come down to a vote. We're going to go through each camper and figure out how they voted.

Leshawna: "I ain't gonna front. I knew that if it came down to a popularity contest, I was gonna lose big time. I had to vote off Heather." That makes absolutely zero sense. First of all, in the very next episode, it did come down to a popularity contest and Leshawna lost big time... by winning big time. And second, if she did think it was going to come down to a popularity contest, why would she vote off the least popular camper on the island? How this confessional slipped through the cracks is beyond me. My best guess is that the writers reviewed it when they were still making Camp TV (the original name for the show) and Gwen was still going to be called Heather. But even that doesn't make sense because a) they are best friends on the island and b) we find out later that nobody was worried about Gwen winning a popularity contest.

As I was writing this post, I came up with an alternate theory: if Leshawna actually thought she was that unpopular, then maybe she thought "If I vote off the person everybody hates, then that might make me slightly more popular." Or maybe she thought "I'm gonna lose a vote anyway, so I might as well vote off the person who's causing me the most grief." Again, both of these hinge on the assumption that she was, in fact, as unpopular as she said.

Duncan: "You made a big mistake a few weeks ago, and I have a looooong memory." Unclear whether he's talking about the Brunch of Disgustingness (when Geoff made Bridgette feel better about eating the "meatballs") or Hide and Be Sneaky (when Geoff failed to help the guys vote off Bridgette). Probably the latter. In either case, he voted for Geoff.

Heather: "I'd have to be an idiot to vote off anyone else at this point. No hard feelings. It's just strategy." Obviously she is referring to Geoff because he is the nicest and most well-liked person on the island.

Owen: After Geoff was eliminated he said, "As if Heather could defeat nice" so he obviously voted Geoff as well.

Gwen: Probably voted for Heather for no other reason than their rivalry.

Geoff: No idea. He spent the episode bonding with Gwen, so obviously not her. He already liked the other guys, so probably not them. Not Heather since that would create a tie. But that only leaves Leshawna, and I seriously doubt he would vote for her.

Maybe I'll go back to the previous episode to explain this: Geoff had stated in the beginning of that one that he didn't like Gwen and Duncan as much because they were serious all the time. So maybe he voted for Duncan just because of that. I don't know, I'm spitballing here.

My final guess: 3 votes for Geoff, 2 for Heather, 1 for Duncan

But as always, these are just my thoughts and I want to hear yours! Could you make heads or tails out of what Leshawna said? What was Geoff's "big mistake"? Who did Leshawna and Geoff vote for? Leave your theories in the comments below.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Morgan Jerkins at Mother Jones:

Last year, despite minding other people’s business online, I didn’t know what a “trad wife” was. Now it seems like every time I log in to Instagram or TikTok, there is another video of a beautiful woman cleaning her home or making an extraordinarily long and needlessly difficult meal. These trad wives, short for traditional wives, are women who post online content showing themselves adhering to patriarchal gender roles while keeping house and raising children—and making it look easy.

[...] I wanted nothing to do with her or any self-identifying trad wife in my own small piece of digital real estate, but their immense popularity (and algorithmic dexterity) had allowed them to trespass, and I find myself unable to turn away. Chances are, neither can you. But while it might be easy to write off the trad wives as a silly meme or a guilty pleasure, they should not be taken lightly. Given the misogynistic messaging and white-centric ideals some of these influencers peddle, they are indicative of larger forces at play—henchwomen in an ongoing effort to functionally erase modern women from the public sphere.

To fully understand the rise of the trad wife phenomenon, it helps to look at its origins. In some ways, trad wives resemble the mommy bloggers of the mid-aughts to early 2010s. Back then, momfluencers like Dooce’s Heather Armstrong and Catherine Connors of Her Bad Mother commanded massive audiences through confessional posts about breast pumps and postpartum depression. As writer Kathryn Jezer-Morton pointed out in a 2020 New York Times piece, mommy branding was different back then: These bloggers were messy; they did not hold back in revealing all of the stickiness and ugliness in their matrescence. But then the vibe shifted. In 2016 and 2017, when Seyward Darby was doing research for her 2020 book, Sisters in Hate: American Women on the Front Lines of White Nationalism, she noticed an ominous subculture gaining prominence, one in which women were performing this highly curated image of wife- and motherhood. “It was aggressively anti-feminist, anti-diversity; some of it was proudly pro-white,” Darby says. Trump’s rise helped give these women a larger megaphone.

Of course, many influencers bragging about being stay-at-home moms are not white supremacists, but, as Darby points out, “it is a slippery slope—and sometimes there’s no slope at all—between ‘I’m just a nice woman who wants to be a wife and mom’ and having a very white nationalist agenda. Whether they realize it or not, those are the waters they are swimming in.” Watching trad wife content can pull viewers into territory they didn’t expect. “What’s scary is that there is a subtext in all these videos,” Washington Post tech columnist Taylor Lorenz tells me. For example, a trad wife might advocate for “natural living” or homeschooling, and then veer into anti–birth control rhetoric or religious indoctrination. “When you engage with these videos, because they are so adjacent to fascist, far-right content, you are quickly led down a rabbit hole of ­extremism.”

Not all trad wives have direct links to the far right. But what unites them is a romanticized vision of domesticity, or, as Darby calls it, “June Cleaver 1950s cosplaying.” As self-proclaimed trad wife Estee Williams, who rejects any associations with white supremacy, declared in a 2022 TikTok video, “We believe our purpose is to be homemakers.” It’s not simply about looking pretty. Their aestheticizing of housework is a throwback to the mid-20th century, when women weren’t even allowed to get a credit card or a loan. Publications such as Ladies’ Home Journal were responsible for promoting a certain kind of wife as a way to reestablish social order after World War II, when many women had entered the labor force. As Ann Oakley puts it in her 1974 book, Housewife, “a good wife, a good mother, and an efficient ­homemaker­…Women’s expected role in society is to strive after perfection in all three roles.” Most trad wife content is marked with this desire for perfection.

[...]

So why are many millennial and Gen Z women an eager part of the trad wife audience? Here’s my theory: We’ve given up. The popularity of the trad wife content is demonstrative of a psychological resignation. In the past several years, we’ve experienced a pandemic, the fall of Roe v. Wade, and the end of the Girlboss­­ Era. The rise of the trad wives marks what Samhita Mukhopadhyay, author of the 2024 book The Myth of Making It: A Workplace Reckoning, believes is “a response to the failures of a neoliberal workplace feminism” stretching from the 1960s to the present day—one that focuses on individuality. “What women fought for was an entry into the workplace,”­ Mukhopadhyay explains, but “being a mother in the workplace was almost untenable.” Even after decades of supposed progress, she points out, “we’re still not paid equally, and most women still don’t have resources commensurate with how hard they work and how they contribute to their families.” According to a 2023 report from the liberal research and advocacy organization the Center for American Progress, women were 5 to 8 times more likely than men to work part time or not at all because of caregiving responsibilities. Maya Kosoff, a content strategist and writer who admits to me that she has become obsessed with trad wives herself, says their popularity is “a reaction to perceived systemic failures” that seem like they “can be easily solved by turning to the simpler life of homesteading.”

And look, escapism isn’t anything new. When life gets harder, it’s only natural that one would daydream about a different time. But fantasies are dangerous when the stakes are so high for American women right now. We have only started to feel the effects of the Dobbs decision. “We have not seen how bad it’s going to get as women are pushed out of public life over the coming years,” journalist and MeToo activist Moira Donegan tells me. “Our main educational institutions, our workplaces, our elected officials are going to start to look more male.” Sociologist Tressie McMillan Cottom similarly argues that attacks on reproductive rights represent an erosion of women’s place in a democracy. “Women only get to be full citizens if they have control over when and how they have babies,” she says. “When that changes, your citizenship becomes vulnerable, so you attach yourself to a citizen: men. I think this reclaiming of being the traditional wife is here so long as there’s a threat.”

Mother Jones does a solid report on the explosion of tradwife culture in the wake of the Dobbs decision, in which abortion bans serve as a tool to drive women out of the workforce.

Tradwife influencers romanticize the 1950s aesthetic, and most of them tend to have far-right political views (especially on gender roles).

Read the full story at Mother Jones.

[whichuniverseisthis]

Someday soon I'll stop talking about the reboot and taking a cartoon character way too seriously, but today is not that day. Long post below.

Can we please talk about the fact that Bowie's character development consisted of him acting more and more like a villain throughout the season, and that's why he was constantly paired up with Julia, especially after the merge?

Eliminating Caleb first was a strategic play, but one that helped everyone, and not just himself. In episode 3 he probably tried to vote off MK because she wasn't a team player, not for the confessionals, he still didn't know about those in that moment. In episode 6 he threw Julia's phone in the lake to avoid giving her (or MK if she didn't get out) an unfair advantage over everyone else.

But after Wayne and Raj left, he started antagonizing Julia more and more (wouldn't be surprised if it was because he wanted her out over them). In episode 9 he literally stated how he was "done playing nice" while fighting her.

And then, in episode 10 he found Millie's notebook, but he didn't use it until the semifinal.

It wouldn't surprise me if his original plan was to use it to get himself and Emma to the final, either exposing it before the votes to separate Millie and Priya, or right after if Julia didn't get immunity and they could vote her off, but then Emma turned on him, and that was the moment he decided to play for himself only. He willingly postponed his plan to eliminate both Emma and Julia before getting into action.

He even accepted Julia saying they BOTH were villains, and acted as such right against her after "being nice" for most of the season.

[And on that point, people say Julia was dumb to trust him not to vote her off, but she literally had no choice, since Priya and Millie already rejected her and she didn't manage to win immunity. What else could she do beside hoping for a vote not against her?]

The difference between the two of them is that Julia embraced it from the moment she was exposed, while Bowie had to lose all of his closest allies/friends and get exposed to Julia for a long time before accepting it.

Edit to add a couple of details:

-In episode 9 throwing Zee in the honey was the first fully villainous thing he did, and obviously he did it together with Julia.

-In episode 12 Priya and Millie wore hero costumes during the challenge, contrasting Bowie and Julia who were wearing their normal clothes because being villains was their second nature by then ("We're the villains. We're created by nature, for balance.")

-Also in the same episode, the line where Bowie notices how much Millie likes taking notes always gives me the chills. Because Bowie and Emma always said everything they thought to each other's faces, and the moment they didn't they fell apart, while Millie spent most of the season talking behind Priya's back and only realized way later how bad she'd been acting. And that's why Bowie wasn't apologetic at all when exposing the notebook and tearing off the last page, the "not said".

Bowie can become such an interesting character if one looks at his smaller actions throughout the season. People that say he has no character beside "being gay" are so annoying, ugh. Just enjoy the damned show and have fun already.