#something something having violence done upon you makes you a Good Victim and doing it to others makes you a Bad Victim

[nostalgiacored]

between this and the super hell comment I'm hm. hmmmmmmm. I don't like where that's going!

[luvrodite]

lover, be good to me. jason todd [3.4k]

synopsis. in the third summer of your love, you get sick.

cw. gn!reader, sickfic, mental health issues, descriptions of weight fluctuation, angst, hurt/comfort. medication. this one is a bit heavy so please exercise discretion. written from the perspective of chronic illness but nothing is specified beyond discussion of mental health symptoms.

There’s a ghost that lives in your home.

This thing lives between you and Jason, a haunting in every room, a presence you can’t not feel. You feel its baleful eyes on you in dreams and upon waking, strongest in the winter, when the East Coast chill sinks its teeth into your arms hard enough to reach bone. 

It goes like this: sometime in the third summer of your love, you get sick. There isn’t anything to point to what it is exactly, only that one June morning you don’t get out of bed. It’s nothing until it is, the next several weeks spent making a home in the four walls of your shared bedroom. 

A flip switches seemingly overnight, and you’re further from your lover than you’ve ever been. 

Jason - and the part of you that knows better, dormant now, buried beneath the rubble - watches in mute horror as you bring yourself to ruin. The desire to be good, the control you’ve held over yourself, slips free of your grasp in seconds. Invisible threads are picked at until you’re frayed at the ends and your beloved home, this reprieve the two of you had as good as built from the ground up, falls victim to it. 

You pick fights. You slam doors and hide in the bathroom for hours on end. You want to scream yourself hoarse, your fingers itching for violence, longing to shatter something if only to give life to this sickness that lives in you, as if by breaking, you’ll cast it out. The exorcism does not come, but a cloying feeling sits beneath your skin, strangling, blood sitting stagnant in your veins and rotting. 

There are moments of clarity, when you lift your head from the haze and the gravity of all you’ve done barrels into you like a freight train. Those do not last long, invisible hands pulling you back under before you can correct your course. It's as though you take the backseat, replaced by something entirely that takes the controls, watching in mute horror as you destroy everything around you.

Jason gives it back just as good but even then, even in the anger, there’s something else in his eyes. You catalogue it, feeling as though your very soul has split – it’s the you from before that weeps at this, reaching out for your lover in prostration, begging for forgiveness. The being that lives in you now, volatile, ever shifting like a burning flame, burns too bright to feel shame. He is there, and he loves you – enough to bear the brunt of your pain, apparently. Shards of shrapnel, your anger is explosive and shatters everything in its wake. It cares not for sentiment, for history and love. You hurt, and it is blinding. 

The doctor’s appointment is booked far later than it ought to be, after weeks of tumultuousness that have left a dour cover over your home, seeping through the cracks in the walls and into the surrounding apartments. Your neighbours must loathe you. You’re too detached, too selfish to care.

The night before is the most clear headed you’ve felt all month, haze lifting as if to show you – look what you’ve done, look at all you’ve wrought. The devastation floors you, the grief you’ve caused to the one you love most curdles your blood and you weep in Jason’s arms. Knelt before him, you press your wet face into his lap. 

I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. 

You can barely breathe through your tears, broken hearted, sure you must be dying. Has anyone ever felt such grief, you wonder, and the thought is immediately followed by a tidal wave of self loathing. Selfish, so focused on your own misgivings. This is no way to live.

He tells you he loves you and it feels like a kindness you don’t deserve. Too good a man for you, an exhaustion from the last month lines his features. The thought terrifies you, that you’ve veered too close to the precipice of forever splintering him, that under your hand he knows other, less gentle things. Yours has not been a peaceful love as of late, and you wonder if this will be the straw that breaks his back.

In the waiting room, his hand finds yours. A good man, one you do not deserve. He doesn’t let go. Not when your name is called, not when you tell your doctor what’s been happening.

You hope, foolish, desperate thing that you are, that they’ll offer a quick fix. It’s laughable, but the soft turn of the doctor’s gaze makes your stomach twist. So begins the year of doctor’s visits.

You become very familiar with waiting rooms, sterile rooms and the low buzz of the news channel playing on TVs, pale walls and water coolers, paper cups shredded in your lap. 

The first shrink you talk to is, at first, the answer to all your problems – Jason balks at it, in the beginning, and you hear him muttering to his brother on the phone but he doesn’t breathe a word of it to you. If it helps you, that’s all that matters. The man listens. He understands how hard things are and how your hurt is poisoning you. He makes the right noises and his cardigan lends him an air of sincerity, brown eyes framed by thick glasses that in the glare of the light feel kind, almost like kinship.

You’re desperate for a solution, even if it means taking the prescription pills that after about a week, leave you with hands that shake violently anytime you raise them, shedding too much weight, way too fast. The insomnia comes next, and then the pills that are meant to fix that. Orange, smaller than the nail on your little finger. The tremors do not go away, but in settles a new drowsiness, bringing with it vivid dreams that feel terrifyingly lifelike. You wake in a sheen of sweat to the already awake gaze of your boyfriend, eyes wide and wary, hands finding yours in the dark, whispering reassurances when you cry again. 

How many tears have you spent this year, and how many have you subjected him to?

His kindness feels like a balm over your jagged edges, and you shake your head when he first tentatively suggests that the medicine isn’t working. You’re determined to stick to your vow. You love him, you need to get better. You can’t keep living like this, can’t do the fits of rage, can’t do the mood changes. You can’t keep hurting the both of you.

Still, sleep evades you, a cruel thing dancing out of reach even when you’re told to double down on the dose. The dreams only worsen, virulent hues of fluorescent greens and red, blood and viscera on your hands. 

It feels like a condemnation when Jason mutters one night, after you’ve woken from yet another dream, body stiff with fright and reaching out for him, less hesitant now in the face of your tears, “This isn’t working.”

Bitterly, you find you can’t argue with him. Worse, you’ve shelled out a horrifying amount of money simply to vent to a yes-man. The pills are disposed of in the morning and another appointment scheduled.

Back in the waiting rooms, back to discussing other, not-shrink options, Jason’s hand finds yours once more. You watch the news, watch tired parents wrangle their sick children, watch the colourful plastic toys. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, leaning into his side. 

You’ve been unwell for a month and then some, by now. The waiting room feels like a taunt – you are sick, you are suffering. The sickness festering in you, the rot you can’t explain, makes you feel smaller than ever, frail in a way you haven’t known before. 

Before, you used to like that Jason was so much bigger than you, that he could protect you. This, though, he cannot save you from, a fact you’re sure frustrates him just as much as your weakness does you. There is the anger, of course, but there is also fear. What is to become of you now? Your life, through your failing health, has been torn from you. You feel robbed, feel a distinctly you-shaped loss in your frame that leaves you teetering on a precipice. How quickly things had taken a turn, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Jason sighs, turning to press his mouth against your hairline. “I know. I know, baby.”

You’re sent off with forms for another blood test. Maybe it’s something different, and there burns a beacon of hope. It is also entirely possible you’ll spend another six months on medication that doesn’t work. 

You don’t care for this. There is a hopelessness and vulnerability to feeling sick that you do not care for, catching sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror and doctor’s office scales and fluctuating weight – you begin to turn your head away from the numbers at this point like you're being stuck by a needle, meeting your lover’s eye while the doctor takes his notes and finding comfort in teal irises, in the small grin he gives you when you’ve done something he thinks to be brave. You don’t care for any of it, but you must. For him. 

He hasn’t breathed a word of contention to you – a good man – but you know it weighs on him. You’ve woken once or twice in the night to find him watching over you, something in his eyes like he fears you’ll slip away, a hand always in yours, or holding you close to him. 

Guilt, ever-cutting, roils in your stomach. The anger cedes these days to make way for it, and your eyes burn, shame becoming a familiar friend.

“I’ve put you through the wringer, haven’t I?” you whisper on one of these nights. He blinks, unaware you’ve woken, and it speaks to how tired he must be that he’d not noticed, too lost in his thoughts to feel your eyes on him.

He cradles your jaw tenderly with one hand, kissing your temple. “No more than I’ve worried you.”

It’s true that you’ve faced your own set of troubles with him. Still, it feels distinctly different – his anger had been the product of fear, a genuine terror at the thought of letting you get too close. There’s decay in you, one you aren’t sure has entirely left, despite your placidity these days. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologise and he narrows his eyes, but you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a good man.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “Obviously I’m going to fuckin’ look after you.”

Do I deserve it? You think.

“Wish you’d let me do the same for you,” you whisper, instead. It’s a truth you’ve often spoken, but feels like a lie in this moment, a deflection of your feelings. Guilt, once more, settles on your tongue, cloying against your tastebuds.

He kisses you sweetly, and you wonder if he can taste it. Something in the slant of his lips tells you he knows. How could he not? Once, twice, he brushes his mouth over yours. Chaste, loving. “Just get better. Then, maybe. I’ll consider it.”

Your eyes burn, fear like the tide, washing in once more. “What if–” your breath hitches, a lump forming in your throat.

“What?” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“What if it isn’t–if I don’t–” you can’t make out the words. The pad of his fingers brush over your lips.

“You will,” Jason whispers, voice thick. His eyes are bright in the dark, you realise, horrifyingly, sapphires covered in a sheen of liquid. “You will, ‘cause you promised me. And I’m holding you to it.”

You hear it for what it is – I’m here. I’m here and I’m not letting go of you. Don’t let go of me.

He’s asked for so little. Good men are rare to find in Gotham and you’ve got the best of them. You reach up and clutch his wrist, hands turning until your fingers slot comfortably between each other. 

“Okay,” you tell him, and you know he knows. I’m going to get better. 

The diagnosis comes eventually. In your relief, there is also bitterness. Another step forward, it still feels entirely too late. It should have come before, you think. Before you’d taken a sledgehammer to your love, before you’d fractured yourself and Jason from the inside out, before you’d put scars where there had been none, invisible lacerations lining the walls of your chest.

The medication – pills, pills, always pills – is difficult to adjust to at first. It leaves you short of breath, and more anxious, reaching for Jason to ground you. You cry a lot and though it isn’t anything new, there’s a misery in Jason’s eyes that only makes you weep more. You want to be okay again. You want to smile at him without the weight of all you’ve done, without knowing you’ve made him cry when he thinks you’re asleep, tears bleeding silently into the space of the pillowcase above your head. You want to go back so bad it makes your hands shake.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Jason, on his side, brushes a finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Can I say something.”

You hum, sliding your eyes over to him. He gives you a tentative smile - the barest quirk of his lips. 

“Maybe I’m being hopeful, I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes tracing the slope of your nose. “Tell me to shut up if I start talking too much.”

This bashfulness makes you laugh a little. It’s so much like before, and you ache for it. For a moment, you can pretend nothing bad has happened, that the two of you are just in love and home. 

(You wonder if you will always be reaching for before. If you’ll ever get it back, if you’ll always long for it. You wonder if Jason does too.)

“What?” you breathe out.

“Think the meds are working.”

Your breathing shallows and you blink at Jason. Hope is a fickle thing, and it feels tremulous, dancing just before your fingers, as if coaxing you to reach out. You trust him more than anyone in the world, but you’re scared to hope. “What?”

His knuckle brushes over your cheek. “You don’t look as tired.”

You avert your eyes. “Maybe I’m just sleeping better.” Tell me. I’m selfish, I know, but tell me I’m doing better. I need to hear it from you.

He shakes his head, and you quietly marvel at the bloom of pleasure in his face, a contentment you haven’t seen in months in the crease around his eyes. “It’s not that.”

The doctor confirms this when you go back a few weeks later and Jason, so like himself for a brief moment, meets your eyes over the man’s head and mouths, I told you. You bite back a grin, still wary, barely out of the woods. 

“You’ve gained weight,” the doctor says when he gets you on the scale, and he sounds so pleased the sound shoots straight through to your heart, flintstone striking a light, kindling hope for the first time in months. You look down to the numbers flashing back at you, to your lover – but he’s already watching you, eyes creased in silent pleasure. 

You are the last to accept this tentative beginning to peace, to healing, but he waits for you at the threshold, hand outstretched. 

There is no tangible evidence of the destruction you’ve wrought in your home but it lingers, even as you begin the slow crawl out of the woods. You see it in the lines of your lover’s face. There are corners of the room you cannot bear to look at for the first few months following your appointment, too reminiscent of words you’d bellowed in a rage induced haze, captive to your own body. 

This history is one too fresh, too tender to accept just yet, wounds still pink and raw. You cannot face yourself yet. There is too much to do, too much work to do, too much at stake to jeapordise if you slip and fall now.

But Jason is a good man. Much better than you think you deserve – but he’s said the same about you, so perhaps…just maybe…you think it might even out. 

He doesn’t shy away from the worst bits of you, the ugliness you’ve bared to him does not run him off, not like how you flinch from it. You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. He’s hard to shake off, but you don’t want him to. You’re thankful, even, for the dog teeth he’s sunken into your forearm, bound together in blood.

There is grief in beginning to heal. 

Perhaps heal is not the right word, and yet there is no other for this, overcoming the last few months feels like it ought to be called healing. But this is a forever thing. You will know this deficiency for the rest of your life, will know doctor’s appointments and bloodwork – strictly cautionary, we need to make sure the dose is right so we can adjust it accordingly. 

There is grief in finding your footing. It lingers, the horror of falling victim to a biological response – that your mind should so easily be lost, it feels indicative of something greater, a weakness you need to cut out at the root. Jason shakes his head when you voice this one night – you are only ever honest like this under the cover of darkness, sleep softened and gentle enough to be frank with him. 

“You’re not weak.” He says this with love in his voice, but a thread of steel weaves through his words. “Don’t fucking say that. You’re here. That counts for a fucking lot.”

He tugs you closer and you feel it again, that fear that grips his heart. Like you might dissolve in his arms in the middle of the night. 

“I feel better–than before,” you tell him, peering up at him, eyes burning. You press a hand to your heart. “But I still feel it. It’s still here.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I know.”

And you suppose he would know. “Is it gonna be like this forever?”

He takes a moment to think, and you have to tuck yourself into his neck to hide your tears. Raw – this year has left you raw. You’ve spent a fountain of tears, but they’re yet to run out. You find solace in the hollow of his throat; if you could, you think you would attach yourself there permanently.

“Yes, but no.” You make a questioning noise and he smooths a hand down your back. “‘S gonna be different, now. Not always going to be bad, or good, just – different.”

“Different.” The word fits oddly in your mouth, and whether it’s the late hour or your grief, you can’t make sense of it. He shudders out a breath, weary, and you press closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I just–” you swallow with some difficulty, a lump in your throat. What is there to say that you haven’t already? “I hate this.”

His lips twitch into a tired, sympathetic grin. “I know, baby.”

Silence follows his words, where you mull over all that there is to say, sorting through the jumble of words in your head. You shift until there’s a little room between the two of you, looking up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel his hand raise from your back to cup the back of your neck, thumb sweeping over your nape gently. 

“I’m gonna –” your breath hitches, stumbling over the words. “I’m gonna be good, I’ll – I’ll be better. I promise.”

And he knows you’re not talking about your health. This is a forever thing, after all. Your words point to the hidden cracks in the walls, the foundation of your home and heart – I’ll be better. 

Tourmaline eyes crack open a little wider to look at you, tired, but hopeful. “I know, baby. We’ll be alright.”

Ah. Of course he knows. You grin tremulously up at him and press forward to smudge a kiss against his jaw, breathing your promise once more against his skin, hoping it takes root. 

Jason waits at the threshold of your new normal, arm outstretched, knowing you’d join him eventually. He’d known, of course he had – every inch of your soul was his. He holds his hand out. 

Out of the woods, you take it.

fin.

this fic has been in my drafts since 2022 and it always felt too vulnerable to write and finish. like there needed to be a big ceremony about it. this fic is incredibly personal to me, and i always thought i had to be 'ready' to finally finish it, whatever 'ready' means. but it's a sunday night and the semester begins tomorrow, and i'm writing this in bed listening to whatever my spotify plays for me. i'm not sure if this will make sense to anyone but i hope it makes you feel something regardless.

this is a love letter to myself first and foremost, because i'm no longer afraid of reopening an old wound!! i carry her with me always and i love her and i'm taking care of her. i love her and i love you.

[pascaloverx]

DEVIL (+18)

Summary: You are a demonic creature, capable of doing whatever you please, whenever you wish. Your goal on Earth is to terrorize as many souls as possible. Until, in a small community, you find the perfect victim for your mischievous games: Father Charlie Mayhew.

Author's Note: Honestly, I’m not sure if this story will have more than one chapter, but it will contain adult content and inappropriate language. Violence may also appear. Frankly, I just needed to write something about this character portrayed by Nicholas Alexander Chavez. The character and others, apart from Y/N, are not my creation. They belong to the Grotesquerie (2024) universe created by Ryan Murphy. To anyone reading this story, I hope you enjoy it.

ONE THREE

TWO

The man knelt before you, pleading for more time. He tried to bargain, claiming he was on the verge of creating a scheme that would corrupt countless souls for you.

"My dear, don’t waste your breath. Our pact was sealed long ago; I used you for the purposes I desired, and now Satan wants your soul. It’s quite simple—it won’t even hurt. It was pleasurable while it lasted, wasn’t it? I gave you every sinful delight imaginable. Now, it’s time to pay the price," you murmur as you crouch down to speak face to face. The man, now sobbing, desperate to avoid death, shakily points a gun at you. His hand trembles as he aims it at your face, and you can’t help but find it almost endearing that he’s so determined to live.

"It wasn’t going to hurt. I wasn’t planning to harm you—I was going to leave that to the demon in charge of your soul down in Hell. But you’ve just lost that privilege," you say, your voice calm as the man frantically throws objects at you, screaming for help. And then you touch him and immediately he catches fire. The flames cover his entire body, as he agonizes and screams in pain, almost roaring for help. When you get bored of seeing a man like that, you touch him again; and it's as if he had never been burned.

"What have you done to me, you demon?" he yells, charging at you like a raging bull, which only makes you laugh.

"I gave you a little preview of your future, darling. Now, brace yourself for your next adventure." You mockingly reply, and before he can reach you, you make him vanish, sending him to his rightful place. Being a demon certainly has its ups and downs, but truthfully, you're growing weary of it all.

Perhaps it’s a good time to visit your favorite priest for confession. It's been a week since you last made contact. You slip into a red lace lingerie set and throw a black coat over it. Naturally, you can’t forget your rosary—it’s essential for keeping appearances. With a final touch, you teleport to Father Charlie Mayhew’s location.

You appear in his room, where he’s half-naked, engaging in self-flagellation while reciting scripture. "Ephesians 6:11: 'Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes,'” he says, inflicting pain upon himself, still unaware of your presence. His back was covered in cut marks, bleeding everywhere, his eyes closed as he felt the pain rack his flesh.

“Father Mayhew, need some help? There are parts of your back that remain untouched,” you say, catching him off guard. Leaning casually against a piece of furniture near a crucifix on the wall, you smile wickedly as he jumps in shock. The towel wrapped around him nearly slips, the only thing keeping him covered. Your eyes glint with amusement, knowing you’ve disrupted his supposed sanctity once again.

"Are you really here?" Father Mayhew asks, standing up, now nearly face to face with you. His gaze is intense, as though he had been thinking about you long before you appeared in his room. You move around the room slowly, admiring the details, your movements deliberate as you subtly encircle him, using your body language to create a sense of dominance. His eyes follow your every step, conflicted between fear and desire.

"How could I not be here, my dear Father, when you bring me such satisfaction?" you say, your voice laced with dark amusement. "I’ve heard you’ve kept your sinful habits, wishing only for my return. I believe you’ve earned a reward." Your fingers lightly trace over the fresh wounds on his back, sending shivers through him, eliciting a soft groan from his lips. His eyes stay locked on yours as you slowly remove your coat, revealing the red lace lingerie beneath, a sinful gift crafted solely for his eyes. His breath hitches as he takes in the sight, the temptation too powerful to resist, his internal conflict laid bare in the silence between you.

"Galatians 5:16: 'So I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh,'” Father Mayhew murmurs, moving closer to you, his eyes fixed on your chest, tracing every curve and detail of your body. If you weren’t a demon, his gaze might have made you feel shy.

“I’m usually the one who hears confessions, but I must confess to you... I longed to see you again, with a fervor far beyond what is permitted,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he stands mere inches from your face, as if yearning for a kiss, the tension between you palpable. You regard him with playful amusement, as if he were your favorite source of entertainment.

"Confess to me, Father. Show me what you desire, and prove what you're capable of," you say, your voice laced with a subtle challenge as your fingers brush against his chest. He inhales sharply at your touch, his eyes reflecting the battle between restraint and temptation. The air between you is thick with tension, and despite his struggle, you sense the pull of his desires growing stronger.

The priest kneels before you, gazing up as though seeking your blessing for survival. "Forgive me, in all Your glory, Lord. For I am devoted to You and should turn away from sinful desires, striving to be a good man," he says, yet his eyes remain fixed on you, laden with a sinful intensity. It’s as though his words are meant for God, but his confession is entirely yours. The feeling of power surges through you. Your hands glide over his face, which now seems to exude a wickedly sinful allure. Your fingers lightly trace his full lips, the touch both tender and commanding.

"You must be devoted to me as well. Embrace your darker side, Father. Do not hide it behind your robes. Accept who you truly are," you whisper, your hand gliding along his neck as his head tilts back, eyes wide and fixed on you.

"And who am I, demon?" Father Mayhew asks, his voice trembling slightly, as if he genuinely seeks the answer. His gaze is locked on you, watching intently as you kneel before him, the tension between his devotion and his desire thick in the air.

"You are mine. You belong to me—not only your body, but your soul as well. Punish yourself as much as you wish, but never forget, it is I whom you must worship and fear," you whisper softly, standing before him, your presence enveloping him. The weight of your words lingers in the air, both a command and a promise, as his gaze remains locked on yours, torn between submission and resistance.

"For the love of God, you are the most tempting creature I have ever encountered. How am I to remain pure in your presence?" Father Mayhew exclaims, his voice filled with helplessness as he gazes at you, nearly unraveling before you.

"Father, you're taking the Lord's name in vain... what a naughty boy," you respond with a playful laugh, lowering yourself slightly to kiss his neck. His body shudders under your touch, a wave of tension and desire sweeping through him as your lips brush his skin. Then his fingers trail down to the underside of your lingerie. You lift yourself up a little to help him touch your pussy over your lingerie, biting your lip when you feel his cold fingers touch there. It doesn't take long for him to tear the fabric and finally massage your wet pussy, making you moan softly. His fingers touching you, gently massaging your clit as you touch his strong arms, encouraging him to continue fingering you.

"Say that you are mine as well, demon. Tell me that you are under the spell of what I do to you. Beg me for forgiveness," Father Mayhew demands, his voice taking on a more assertive tone, as if he wishes for you to confess your own sinful desire.

You move toward him, pulling him close, and without hesitation, your lips meet his in a heated kiss. It’s a battle of passion, a wordless exchange of defiance and submission. Neither of you yields, tongues entwining in a struggle for dominance, each unwilling to surrender to the other.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you moan against his lips, the words flowing like a dark and twisted prayer, as if reciting a beautiful, forbidden verse.

"I forgive you..." he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as his lips crash against yours in a heated, desperate kiss. It's as if he needs the taste of you more than he needs to breathe, each movement of his mouth against yours betraying the battle within him, torn between what he knows is wrong and the temptation he can no longer resist. His hands caress your body, stopping at your thighs, and as he grabs them, you open your legs so he can penetrate you.

"Father Mayhew, are you there?" A woman's voice calls from outside, her knock firm against the door. You and Father Mayhew lock eyes, both silently exchanging glances that hold the weight of unspoken words. He knows your nature, the dangerous allure you carry, and in this moment, he acts on instinct. As he tries to compose himself, he quickly places his hand over your mouth, silencing any response that might expose you both. His expression is tense, a silent plea for discretion, as the tension in the room grows thick.

"Yes, Sister Megan. Do you need something? I'm just finishing getting ready," Father Mayhew calls out, his voice steady despite the situation. He glances at you, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. It’s clear that, though he might never openly admit it, he's waiting for whatever mischief you might stir. He craves it—your demonic influence, your unpredictable nature—and the subtle tension in the air reveals that he is far more enticed by the chaos you bring than he dares to acknowledge. You then use one hand to masturbate Father Mayhew, who moans in response to the sensation of your hand touching his cock, which is already covered in pre-cum. Your fingers running the length of Father Mayhew's cock as he closes his eyes feeling you touch him.

"I would love your opinion on an article I'm considering publishing. It's quite intriguing, I must admit. It discusses some recent murders that are likely related to the church. I thought we could discuss it over a meal," Sister Megan says, her enthusiasm palpable. Father Mayhew shuts his eyes tightly, his hand still covering your mouth as he stifles a few muffled groans. The tension in the room is thick, a stark contrast to Sister Megan’s casual demeanor, as he struggles to regain his composure, caught between his duty and the forbidden thrill of your presence.

"Wait for me at the church entrance... I will, I will be there in a few minu...tes, now please allow me to dress in silence," he stammers, urgency lacing his voice as he attempts to gather himself. His eyes flicker to yours, a mix of desire and desperation evident as he fights to maintain his composure while you continue to captivate him. Your hand closed around the contour of his cock, moving back and forth, sometimes touching the head of his cock. He is on the verge of cumming, one hand under your mouth, the other under your breast, squeezing your breast, causing you a pleasurable sensation.

"I'll be waiting for you, Father," Sister Megan says before leaving, her footsteps echoing in the silence. You couldn’t care less about her departure. The tension in the room escalates as you release your grip on him, locking eyes with the Padre. He removes his hand from your lips, frustration etched across his features.

"Why did you stop?" Father Mayhew asks, a sultry grunt escaping his lips, revealing his longing for your sweet touch. His gaze searches for you, desperate and yearning, as he grapples with the overwhelming desire you stir within him. The air crackles with unspoken words, the thrill of the forbidden intensifying the moment.

"Next time, give me more importance. Your attention must be entirely mine, just like your devotion, but right now, neither belongs to me. I'm sure you can call Sister Megan in here to assist you if you wish. Until our next encounter," you say, your tone tinged with irritation as you reprimand him with a piercing gaze.

As he reaches out to touch your face, murmuring a soft, "I'm sorry," it’s too late. You vanish into thin air once again, leaving him frustrated and uncertain, haunted by the question of whether you will truly return. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, a reminder of the intoxicating temptation he now craves.

[gremlingottoosilly]

[If you need to be mean] chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Your date with a new guy isn't good for you. Konig is inclined to show you that. TW: Konig being a huge pervert, Canon-Typical violence, Dub-Con, Innocence kink, Age difference(Konig in his yearly 40, Reader in young 20)

Pairing: Konig x fem!Reader Tags: Fluff, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Size Kink, Possessive Konig, Yandere Konig, Creepy scary stalker Konig, written mostly from Konig's perspective TW for this chapter: Drug use, Attempted date rape. Please, proceed with caution.

He can kill a person in under 10 seconds. 

Time cuts in half if he is allowed to use weapons – but it would go up to ten minutes if the victim is particularly bitchy, he has an ax to grind, and he wants to take his time with a knife to gut the person’s insides out of their body. 

All time in the world wouldn’t be enough to torture this unforgivable, terrible, disgusting son of a bitch who decided that he can just come out and take what rightfully belong to him. A man whose desires are literally printed on that stupid grin plastered on his face. He transfers it in the movement of his hand when he holds your waist too tight, when he smiles and laughs at your – adorable, funny, perfect – jokes and. 

König prides in always being the silent one, the calm, collected guy who is capable of holding his emotions inside of him until they would eventually die down and leave him without any big, terrible feelings. He uses battlefield as a way to reveal his emotions, to unveil it in a more healthy way – and sometimes he visits his therapist, explains all of the horrible stuff he sometimes wants to do to people around him, or someone from his past, and then waits for a new portion of sedatives that he won’t use because he is stronger than this, who they think he is? 

König takes pride in never talking if something isn’t right – he would simply change the situation, make it better, always the type to do stuff and not talk about doing stuff – but then he looks at the bastard who took you on something that can’t be anything but a date, and he is fuming. They aren’t supposed to kill civilians, of course, soldiers are here to protect them, to hunt for terrorists who prey upon innocent victims, just like your fragile self – but for god's sake, if he never had to restrict himself more than right now. He has to do something about it, he can’t just let his girl, his perfect future wifey to just…whore herself around to other people!

Yes, you are not yet aware of his plans, but he knows that you are faithful – just, perhaps, a bit dumb and not realizing yet who you belong to. It’s fine, he can’t just let you have agency over something that is just beyond control of your silly, fragile mind. He is fine with you being a bit too naive – he doesn’t need you to be smart or capable, or even independent, he would take care of everything as long as you are pliant and docile for him. As long as he is willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe, of course. 

He can disassemble a body in under 5 minutes. Bones are usually the toughest part, especially if he doesn’t have a proper bone saw in his arsenal, but he can always dispose of it by using the strength of his enormously big body – he is working out for a reason, and he has done lots of unforgivable things to conceal the truth behind some of the crimes he committed in service. He isn’t proud of this, but if his skills would help him dispose of the body of this guy, he would do it in a blind of an eye. 

His size isn’t allowing him to follow you two properly – and, unfortunately, he only saw you in the end of this supposed date, walking down the street with your body already shaking from alcohol intake. This is completely unsafe, he thinks – you are so soft, so fragile right now, you shouldn’t even be walking on the street like this. You can get hurt, someone can take advantage of you, you are still wearing the dress that is too fucking short to be walking out in the street at this hour, and your makeup is adorable and nice, but he doesn’t even want to think about all that unwanted attention your wasted body can attract right now. 

If you were with him, he would call a taxi already, make sure that you are at home safely – or go with you, take you to his place and prepare some water and hangover medicine. He wouldn’t just parade you like that, allowing you to giggle drunkenly and cling on his body. He would…okay, maybe he would take your body in his hands at first, but then he would find you a nice and comfy place to sleep, so he could gently touch your hair the whole night and watch as you would sleep softly, only sometimes waking up so he could hold your hair while you are puking your insides out. 

If you were with him…but you aren’t. You’re on a date with some douchebag, smiling and clinging on his hand, allowing him to hold your waist and let his hand slip to your butt. König almost wants to laugh – he forgot how dumb civilians might be, how naive, how weak. He should feel betrayed that you, a perfect little lady of his dreams, is out with someone else – and he would be, he ought to punish you for this later, but he knows that he can’t really blame you. You are weak, docile, your pretty head has no thoughts besides sunshines and maybe rainbows – just like a normal civilian. You can’t really be blamed for not understanding yet what relationships you two have, and why you can’t break it to be with another man. 

*** You are not having fun. 

It wasn’t as clear at first, when the guy – Tomas, of course, you studied his nametag for a week at least before he finally asked you out, even though you really thought it would just be a friendly gesture. He asked you for a few drinks, said something about your colleagues also being here – a little friendly gathering with your coworkers, a nice way to relax from all the terrorist threats and that shitty manager you have. It was supposed to be a fun thing, nothing serious, and you really like that guy – maybe even in a romantic sense. He is handsome, kinda cool, your age and works with you – a recipe for nice little fling, yes? 

Then no one came and you were messaging all your colleagues who were close to you – and no one knew anything about a friendly gathering at the local pub. 

Then he proposed to pay for your drinks and you agreed – a nice way to save some money, you would repay him later, maybe in the next pub after this one, so it won’t drain both of your paychecks. 

Then the drinks started to feel too heavy. You never got drunk so fast before, only one cocktail already made your head buzz with alcohol, and you almost want to change your order to a virgin mojito, but then you would probably seem like a buzzkill. You don’t want to be a buzzkill, poor guy is sad enough that no one comes to his makeshift party. Besides, if one drink is kicking you off so hard, it can also save you money – so it really is just a win-win situation and even if his hand slights a bit too deep in your thighs, and the pub seems too sleazy and empty for a friendly date, you are already too wasted to tell. 

Then you drink, and drink, and he doesn’t seem so weird anymore – besides, you did like him a lot. Besides, he paid for your drinks and it’s really nice, he even proposed to watch over your glass while you are out to the bathroom. You would try to splash water over your face to feel a bit more sober, but that would ruin your makeup – so you just cool your hand in some cold stream while hoping that this is just a moment of weakness and you would be okay after a few minutes. 

Then you aren’t okay and you really, really don’t want to be a buzzkill, but you quietly ask him to just go home – and he is walking you to his place, so you won’t have to suffer through hangover alone. It’s really nice of him, he supports your weight and you would just call an uber, but no one wants to work so closely to the curfew, and you can’t really break it again – unless you want that creepy scary terrifying handsomely weird colonel to catch you again, but in even more guilty state. Your state of mind isn’t clear, but Tomas helps you walk and he gently rubs your waist and you don’t even listen to him, just giggle from his compliments. He asks if you want him to stay – and you laugh because you don’t really feel good, you feel out of control mostly, and your body feels too light and too heavy at the same time, but he holds your hair and asks again and you almost begin to panic but hey, there really isn’t much to panic about, he is  good guy, right, and then…

You are not sure if you want him to be this close to you, but every time you try to make a small distance between your bodies, he clings on even more, and you aren’t sure how long you can keep doing this. He is a good guy, and you don’t want to be rude, he is probably just worried about you – you are so dizzy, you can just fall any second and this will be your fault completely. He pushes you deeper in the alley and you feel nauseous – he is too much, too close, he holds you too tight and you feel like you are going to puke. Tomas holds you close and you almost panic – but you shouldn’t, it should be fine, he is just worried about you, but it feels so weird, sick, you don't want to be here suddenly. Don’t want to feel so weak in his grasp. 

— W…wait, Tom. I don’t feel so good, I…sorry, I shouldn’t be drinking so much. 

You are in front of his house – he cuts the way through the alley, basically dragging you over to the place, and you don’t like it anymore. You want to be at your home, puking in that shitty bathroom of yours – all alone, at least, drink some emergency medicine and hope that you could still go to work tomorrow. 

— Hey, are you alright? 

He is attentive and nice and you feel bad for being such a bitch about everything, you totally ruined his evening by being such a lightweight – there is something dark in his eyes, and you are scared that this is contempt of you. That he hates being around you so, so fucking much because you are nothing but a buzzkill to him. 

— I’m…sorry, I think I should just call a ride home. 

— Come on. You really think this is what’s best now? 

— I don’t feel so good, sorry, I…

—A guy deserves something for being nice, no? I paid for your drinks after all. 

You want to say that he only paid for one drink that got you drunk too fast. You want to say that this doesn't feel right, that you shouldn’t be so wasted out of one cocktail, that you feel wrong, weird, that you really, really don’t want to be with him right now. He holds you too close and you try to ge tout of his grasp, but you feel too fucking heavy. 

Something is wrong. 

Suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a good guy as before. 

— Sorry, I don’t…I think I need to go to the hospital, I…

His grasp on wrists became bruising. You don’t want to be here anymore, you want to yell for someone to help you get the fuck out of here – but your mouth feels like its full of water and dry at the same time, you don’t want to yell because what if you are just overthinking, and he is genuinely a nice guy. What if you will only disturb people around here – his neighbors probably need to sleep already, you don’t want to be a nuisance. 

— Well, sorry I’m not that fancy army guy. 

— It’s not like this, I don’t even…

— You just love behaving like you’re too good for this place, yeah? Sorry for disturbing you with our poor vibes, princess. 

He is angry now, and you are not even sure why – you can’t even master a normal sentence when your head is spinning and your throat can’t even master a tiny breath anymore, you are barely even able to talk. 

— I…

— I’m getting really sick of waiting for your majesty to pay attention. Think I deserve something nice for my patience. 

He grabs your hands even tighter and drags you to his apartment – your body feels heavy, you don’t want to be here with him, he is talking nonsense and blaming you for someone that you don’t even know – you barely remember him by now. He is speaking, talking about something – until he isn’t. 

Then you hear something crack and this is what the curtain call for your tired, exhausted mind to shut off finally. 

*** König can kill a person in under 10 seconds – even less if he has a weapon. 

Fucking asshole who tried to force himself on you doesn’t even deserve his sadistic streak – he don’t want to waste time on killing him, precous minutes that he can spend tending to your needs. If it was under different circumstances – if your limp body weren’t lying on the ground right now, gently pushed down by his reaction when you first started to fall down – he would think about torturing this guy a bit more. 

Firstly, he would break his fingers – one by one. It’s not as effective a way of torturing someone as pulling their nails off, for example, since a person can die much easier from that kind of pain – but he would do it anyway, just so he can get the kick out of destroying the hands that were touching you. 

Secondly, he would do something with his face – maybe burn the fuck out of his filthy mouth, that dared to speak to you in such rude manner. He would pull his tongue off, slowly break each of his teeth – right until pulling them also, enjoying the sight of blood dripping from his broken lips. you would be terrified probably – so he won’t make you watch it, would just ask you nicely to sit somewhere and smile until he is doing all the dirty work. He would love doing this for you – and you could just lick the blood from his hands later. 

Guy would probably be unconscious by this point – a good way to toss him like a piece of garbage he is, leaving him to slowly bleed out somewhere secure, where no one would ever find him. Then, König could return to you – and your innocent little smile, your trembling hands and cold body in need for warming up. 

But he doesn't have much time right now – he just snapped the bastard’s head while not even caring if someone is watching. If there is someone who saw the scene and didn’t help you – he would go for them too. Protector of his country can have a bit of collateral damage, as a treat. You are his biggest priority and right now you are laying on the ground, barely moving – he only sees your chest moving up and down, the only thing that helps him not to panic from thinking that you are dead. He gently holds your body upright, making sure to support your head – like a small baby, even though he was never holding one. 

He has quite a few experiences in taking care of his drunk comrades – he would usually just toss them out of the bar and into whatever taxi was available. If he is feeling generous – and they are out of car service available in the area – he would even drag them on his shoulder, given that even with men in full gear and a wall of muscles, he is still larger and stronger. 

But he can’t just toss you around like a bag of potatoes, you are fragile! And helpless, and adorable, and he wants to kill that bastard a second time because you are clearly intoxicated and he doesn't even want to think about what could have happened if he wasn’t here to save you. You look perfect, placed in his arms like a good and obedient girl. He is almost caught in fantasies again, but the weight of your body in his hands is bringing him back to reality. 

You smell like alcohol and something sweet, a nice fragrance that you used for this day – jealousy is eating him from the inside, because his adorable little lady didn’t put perfume for him. For that asshole instead, but at least he is dead now – neck twisted and head snapped, quick and silent job. He just tossed his body in the nearest trash can, knowing that even if police did try to find him as a convict, they would be forced to look away if they don’t want to have problems with the local military. 

König remembers the path to your house like he came here every day. He wants this to be true, but this rathole isn’t safe for you. He needs to get you out of here, to place you in the safety of his lap, where he could hug you and cherish you and worship the paradise you are keeping between your legs, waiting for him to come and ripen you. No one is out in the streets at this hour, and he moves fast enough that he covers the ground fairly fast. 

You stir slightly in his grasp and he moves his hands a little, hugging the curve of your ass a bit more. Your thighs are soft and he pushes his fingers deeper in the plumpness of your flesh, enjoying the sensation – you are wearing some skimpy dress and a short jacket, once again not being dressed up to the weather. He almost wants to give you a good spanking, bend you over his knee and beat the flesh of your ass until you learn his lesson. The image of your adorable crying face, begging him to stop and meowling about being a good girl for him makes his pants tighter – and he drags you closer to him, heating your body with his. 

You are addictingly small in his hands, he has to use all what’s left of his self control to not grab your body in inappropriate places. He pushes you closer to the door of your apartment once he is trying to search for the keys in your pocket – it’s hard when you are still unconscious but still moves in his hands, trying to resist even if he is not doing anything. He wants you to cry under him, to get crazy from stimulation as he slams his hips in yours, breeding you like a good little puppy you are – but he wants you to beg him to do this, to allow him to. He almost manages with his anxiety over the years, but the deeply rooted fear of rejection makes him self-conscious. 

— W…wait, don’t ‘ouch me…

König almost freezes in place. Your voice is small, broken, he can sense the tears in your tone as he gently rocks you in his hands. Your place is even worse on the inside, and he absolutely can’t have you staying here for long – but he also doesn’t want to drag an intoxicated and probably drugged girl to the base, leaving his reputation to become even more monstrous. He can invite you to his quarters later, when you both would have time for a very harsh conversation about safety – and why you are a dumb little civilian who shouldn’t ever be thinking for herself if she knows what’s good for her. He can be there for you, and deliver the well-deserved punishment on your body. 

— Quiet, mein Schatz. It’s alright now. 

— No, wait, I…wait…

You are still half-asleep when he gently moves your limp body to the couch, touching your hair even so gently. You are so pliant right now, so docile – afraid of him, of course, it breaks his heart, but it also makes his pants tighter. König enjoyed having you so weak in his arms, just like a good sweetheart should be – not making him feel anxious with the possibility of rejection, not making him angry for not listening to his demands. 

He can have you now – not like you would be able to resist. 

His large hands moving your head to the pillow, softly placing your face to the side so if you would feel sick, you won’t choke on your own vomit – he has too many experiences of very good soldiers almost dying from such mundane reasons, and he can’t have his little bunny suffering from such disgusting fate. He can’t help but touch your hair constantly, enjoying the feeling of it under his fingers – he tangles up with the strands of it, massaging your scalp only to make you let go of a small groan and frown in your sleep, unaware of the stimulation. 

Your apartment is tiny, even more so – for him. The ceilings are dangerously low above his head and if he wasn't hunching down constantly, trying to make himself smaller, safer for you, he would already bump into your ceiling lamp a few times. He smiles under his mask, happy that even if you were awake, his expression is concealed – he has a wide, scary grin on his face and it only grows larger every time you shift slightly in your sleep, but ultimately allows him to touch your body as he seems fit. 

He can lose control - so easily. You are helpless, limp on the couch even as your eyes are fluttering awake and you take in your surroundings. Your dress is dangerously short, and he can’t help but stare at your curves – your legs are making him go crazy with desire, fantasies about spreading them and burying his face in the sweetness of your cunt are flooding his mind. It would be so easy, just make sure you wouldn’t be able to resist and…

— Wh…what happened? 

You are so fucking fragile – like a fine porcelain doll that his mother liked to collect. All wrapped up in your own weakness, face flushed and eyes filled with tears as you realize that you are laying on the couch in your home, and he – the man who scared you more than any terrorist or war ever can – is softly touching your hair, playing with any loose strands. 

You want to panic – but he softly pushes a finger against your lips. König doesn’t care what your neighbors would think if you cried or screamed, but the walls here are thin, and he doesn’t want to deal with the police and showing off his military badge to any corrupt scum that lives in this country. Your eyes darted to him, terrified – and he doesn’t want this, no, he can’t have you afraid of him. A little bit of fear is okay, it’s normal, he can train that out of you – but he would prefer his wifey to be madly in love, not madly terrified. 

— It’s okay. I took care of that Arschloch for you. 

Your mind is still dizzy, your throat is dry as you try to master at least some meaningful words. Drug is still not out of your system completely – you understand that it was a drug now, you couldn’t be so drunk from just one cocktail, no matter the alcohol content. Tomas tried to do something to you – but you blacked out before he even got you to his apartment, and now you are home, at your favorite shitty couch, with a monster of a man holding you close. 

You want to cry, but his hands are oddly warm and you lean closer to his touch. 

You want to panic, but he pushes his fingers against your lips and you slightly calm down. 

— Tomas? Is he…

— Ja, meine Liebe. He’s dead. 

You are feeling sick. The knot in your stomach, anxiety mixed with alcohol and drugs is making you nauseous, you are scrambling on your feet as you try to get out of the couch – your place might not be the best choice out here, but you pride yourself in at least keeping it clean. He helps you get on your feet, supporting your limp head as you desperately try not to puke on the carpet. 

He killed him? How did he die? Did he do something to you while you were asleep? Did he…

— Let me help you, ja? 

— I picked up a shift in the morning…

— You are not working here anymore. 

— But…

— Don’t fight me, lamm.

He drags you to the toilet and holds your hair as you empty your anxieties away, and the scene is disgusting – but he can’t help but to relish in how adorable you look. All helpless, your body is barely holding together when he tries his best to be gentle, rubs circles in your back and pats your head softly. 

König has a lot of experience in dealing with stuff like this – mostly for himself, when his nerves got the best of him and he couldn’t shit them off. He used to be drunk – one of the reasons why he isn’t taking his meds is just so he could drink enormous amounts of alcohol, enough for his body to finally get drunk. He knows how terrible the intoxication feels when you’re alone – so he wants to take care of you, brings you a glass of water as you hug the corner of your bathtub and tries your best to calm down. 

He looks at your trembling form and fights the desire to kiss you. He knows that he can, you won’t be able to do anything against it – but he wants you to like him, wants you to be as into him as he is. If he wants his proposal to be perfect, you have to like him – so he gently rocks your body from side to side, allowing you to cry on his shoulder. 

You feel terrible – dirty even, weak, afraid of what else might happen with you while you can barely control yourself. Thoughts of what might happen if Tomas had his way flooded your brain – but the gentle hands on your back supported you, warming you up. Your head is still dizzy when you drink water that he bringed, cold liquid helps you a little. You feel his hands on your body, as he takes off your dress – you try to panic, to cling onto your clothes, but he is too strong, too large, too…

He moves you to your couch, placing you on the sheets softly. 

He is tucking your blanket over your body and opens the window for better ventilation. 

He roams through your medkit and places Ibuprofen and a glass of water on your bed stand. 

He moves his body slightly so he can kiss your lips – not even caring that you are not exactly in the best condition for kisses. 

You fall asleep right when he moves you to the side again and closes the door behind him. 

König can only thank your intoxicated state that you didn’t even notice how he took your underwear when he undressed you – a small prize for his help, no? Perhaps, the only thing that can keep his hands off your adorable, precious body. 

He should start looking for rings already.  (Comments and asks are appreciated. Tell me what you liked about this work!!) ---------------------------------TAG LIST--------------------------------- @shigbby @honeeybeezzz @herefornanami-s-cake @pendalikespasta @lucylou302 @yxllowtxpe @sunbathed-sweetgrass @sarah-ardini @teenagegever2k22 @lastwordsofadyingstar @lavenderskye29 @karrotsforyou @inlovewithcodmen @onegami @keithehe @lilahbunny @ameneminimo @beepyboopbop @ms-munchkin @dinonacho @undeadgod @dizeesstuff @mingkiiii @midwesternwitchery @yxllowtxpe @flammenwerferpanzerkampfhund @keithehe @iytatsworld @r02eg0ld @cumikering @ysljoon @m1ndbrand @captain-heebie-jeebie @bluenredndeath

[hobie-enthusiast]

NO BC MORE PPL NEED TO TALK ABT PROWLER HOBIE!!! - 🕷️

— oh 🕷️ anon i completely agree and shall deliver

— cw; not comic accurate 616 hobie, a mix between him and 138 hobie, canon typical violence, mentions of making out

alright, so before a life of crime, the two of you were high school sweethearts. the talk of the school, everyone adored your relationship. voted most likely to stay together, the works. you worked like a support system; hobie having had to raise himself and needed more love than others, along with the hardships you may have faced during your upbringing. hobie originally had a really hard time letting himself be vulnerable around you, but he got used to it, letting you in to help him through what he needs to.

despite having great support, things were rough on him after high school. when he lost his job, the equipment he essentially invented for it made him turn to crime for a shot at protecting the innocent, especially you. you were essentially a victim to the terrible mistreatment of such a fascist country, being terribly poor while with hobie. with such a corrupt government, and tons of heros who defend it, it seemed to be up to him to fix it all. so, he took his inventing skills and became a villain, deeming himself 'the prowler'.

and he felt like he was protecting the people. stopping those bloody cops from hurting the innocent, or punishing officials who've done bad. he was a villain with a good cause, but not many saw it that way. they saw their beloved spider-man as the one who does the good, not some scary villain in a scary suit. essentially, the constant battle between the prowler and spider-man began.

hobie tried to keep his second life a secret from you, he really did. but the one day he was out, you managed to find his prowler suit and mask. along with that, all sorts of gadgets that seemed far too advanced for some regular civilian. upon confronting him about it, he admitted to everything. what he’s doing, who he is, and where he goes.

it’s.. tough at first. learning your high school sweetheart was a super villain isn’t the easiest piece of information to take hold of. but you stayed. you knew he was fighting for a good cause, so you kept him close to your heart. how could you not? hobie always wanted better for you, for the people, for himself. so you stuck your support, staying right by him through it all.

hobie can also find himself in a habit of stealing from large corporations. it’s his thing as the prowler. it would range from stealing food for the local shelter to stealing a nice knick-knack to gift to you. though you feel some guilt at first, it soon disappears upon remembering that these places won’t ever miss what hobie steals. they’ll just find something to replace it.

some things hobie does not do as the prowler (that normal villains tend to); hurt the innocent, steal from small businesses, cause commotion during charity events or rallies of protest, have an innocent be his “person on the inside”, kill like, anyone.

the most he would do to hurt anyone (which is government officials and fascist politicians), is beat ‘em up and give them a good talking to. he reminds them of who’s truly running this country, who’s actually the one feeding them their money, and that normal shuts them up. hobie hates the way they plead with him to not kill them, it honestly makes him laugh. he has the same reply every-time.

“you beg t’ not be offed, but kill ‘ur citizens everyday. think ‘bout it.”

even as the prowler, hobie always makes time for the things he loves. you, for one. he’s always taking you for a night in the city or to hang with his friends. dinner dates at home are a must for the week, he’ll never miss it. he eventually does propose to you, which consists of him just asking out of the blue in bed if you wanna get married. he gives you one of his rings and says, “boom, married. g’night, love.” yeah, you never got official documents. but who cares?

hobie’s other commitment lies with his band. never misses a show to play. he’s sticking with them, even as the prowler. he loves the high he gets from performing onstage for the people he fights for, listening to their enjoyment. he loves laughing with his band as they keep a high energy show going almost all night. and the best part? he sees you after his shows, warm smile on your face as you congratulate him (either verbally or with making out. your choice). he would never trade those nights for fighting as the prowler.

overall, hobie as the prowler is not like every other villain. he’s committed to doing good in the wrong way. and even when spider-man convinces him to find a different way to get his message, he never gives up. he retires his prowler costume in exchange for one that advocates loudly, leading protests and riots at the front lines. he had to admit, it was a lot more refreshing than being painted as an evil villain. plus, it help that you find this option much safer :). he’s content with life as the prowler, even after he retires the persona.

[leviiackrman]

WHAT DOES YOUR SOLE LOOK LIKE & TYPES OF CANNIBALISM;

I was tagged by @faerune @chuckhansen + @corvosattano to take this uquiz for some kiddos, and I also threw in the most recent uquiz tag cus I’m slow tehe! Thank you sm beloveds🤍

Tagging (anyone and everyone cus idk who’s done what lmao): @risingsh0t @bbrocklesnar @roofgeese @unholymilf @florbelles @arklay @captmactavish @shellibisshe @simonxriley @queennymeria @marivenah @nokstella @mrdekarios @thedeadthree @jacobseed @jackiesarch @heroofpenamstan @dameayliins @carlosoliveiraa @shadowglens @fenharel @alexxmason @tekehu @malefiicarum @brujah @solasan @arthrmorgann @garaviel @baldurians @jendoe + @nightbloodbix

A BIRD IN A COVERED CAGE;

They left without you. Put you out of sight and therefore out of mind. You sing every morning like nothing's changed, talk to the walls to keep yourself company. Just you, the darkness and your own denial that you are completely alone. Nurse your wounds, get yourself some water.

RITUALISTIC CANNIBALISM;

eating others as a religious act, a form of human sacrifice or tradition in the name of a deity. you care a lot about your grades, or used to as a child, and would cry if you got a b in English. you are a people pleaser. you are good at self discipline. you desperately want to achieve success, in whatever way that means to you, and feel the need to devote your life to something you find bigger than yourself, in order for your life to have meaning. you probably had an eating disorder. or an anxiety disorder

BLOOD IN A LAMBS WOOL;

You're the victim, right? It hurts, everyday it hurts. It's obvious you're tainted, pulled into hell as soon as you stepped upon earth. You'll never know peace, you'll never know a life without violence. Im sorry. Wash your face and your hands, don't let your wounds carve deeper.

SURVIVAL CANNIBALISM;

eating others to prevent starvation and not as a part of a cultural practice, usually as a result of an emergency or a famine. my sweet baby angel, you have not been touched by the darkness. I'm sorry if this scared you. you are a normal person with normal person problem. you want to get married. you dance with your friends. and you would never ever eat them (right?) it's surprising what can happen to a person, when pushed to the extreme though. have you ever wondered about that?

A PILE OF BUBBLES, AN IRIDESCENT MESS;

Well aren't you just all over? You're appealing but you're fragile, one wrong move and you lose all that you are. You were meant to be stepped on, broken, but the joy you bring to onlookers is unmatched. Do with that as you will and take very good care of yourself, have a snack.

AUTO CANNIBALISM;

the practise of eating parts of ones own body. you consider yourself an introvert. private and reserved. you don't like asking for help, even when you need it. secretly your biggest fear is being abandoned, which is why you abandon others first. in the end you will be your own destroyer. you stay in a dark room, curled up like a worm, eating yourself.

DOG TEETH;

You're vicious, but you're afraid. You have to make the first punch, and make sure your opponent can't land one. But you need to stop seeing everyone as an enemy. The only one being violent is you, your anger and your defensiveness is killing you. Take a nap, rest your head and clear your mind. Come back in the morning.

FILIAL CANNIBALISM;

the eating of one's own offspring. eating offspring has been documented in a variety of mammal and bird species – as well as fish, insects and spiders. hunger and quality control are among the many reasons proposed for this counterintuitive survivor of natural selection. you think of yourself as a logical person, and you probably went through a hardcore atheist phase. you consider this logic a virtue. to you, logic and emotion are two opposites, where one is superior to the other. wait until you find out that logic is an emotion. you are a great problem solver. your partiality towards objectivism though, is often less helpful than you realise. you have a hard time taking criticism.

[atimburtonfan]

Small anocdote on Catwoman from Tim Burton's Batman Returns:

"Upon saving a woman in an alley from an attacker, Catwoman shoves the victim against the wall and says, "You make it so easy, don't you? Always looking for some Batman to save you." The indictment against the victim that she could or should have done something to predict the violence against her and was somehow culpable for it, is ethically fraught on many levels and can be read in many different ways.

Catwoman now has the power and freedom to act in ways that she could not before. But while she saves the woman, she does not represent any sort of female solidarity in the face of a subjugating power structure, nor does she demonstrate empathy regarding the plight of a woman in a situation in which she could have found herself before becoming Catwoman.

While Catwoman's victim blaming is not defensible, it is explicable in light of both her past attitudes toward herself and the search for existential authenticity.

The old Selina Kyle would have never said something so cold and unfeeling to someone in danger because that isn't what nice people do. If one isn't nice, then society will censure that individual in ways great or small for going off-script. In other words, by not alingning one's behaviour with prevailing societal standards, one risks being ostracized by others.

Of course Selina was nice, the world was not particulary nice in return and she wound up dead. She is, therefore, little interested in conforming to the expectations of others, whether or not others frame those expectations as virtuous or desirable."

-from the book: The Philosophy of TIm Burton.

(I find the whole anecdote quite interesting as I always had dubious feelings about Catwoman, she is an anti-hero operating in a morally grey zone. I personally find such characters much more interesting than the superheroes who are pure good.

[reikiajakoiranruohoja]

Mini-Essay: Without Light

WARNING: Discussions of dystopia, gore and cannibalism.

One of the good things about having a wide taste in media is how you can run into the oddest comparisons that still have value.

One of those is between the Project Moon games and Werewolf the Apocalypse 5th ed.

I know I have been focusing on W5 a lot this week, but the way it has messed up is something epic.

To explain to those who haven't played Project Moon games, they are set in a megacity surrounded by hostile wastelands. However, what goes in within the city's walls might be much worse than anything in the outskirts. The city is one of the absolutely worst places in fiction I know, and I know my Warhammer 40k. Cannibalism is so common the chefs have the choice of suppliers, barely human monsters roam the Backstreets to use their victims in various ways including as fabric (yes, FABRIC, not leather) and mega-corps and organized crime force citizens into bloody acts of desperation.

There is deep and profound despair in these games as the characters try to survive in this hostile world with their sanity mostly intact. Often being the greatest danger to each other due to their traumas.

In Werewolf the Apocalypse 5th edition, the Apocalypse is happening, the nation of werewolves has splintered and young werewolves try to hold onto something as they deal with millennia of wrongs their ancestors have committed. The old werewolves say the Wyrm, a force of entropy has gone mad and has been the main foe of the werewolves for as long as anyone can remember. What isn't helping these lost werewolves is that two tribes of their Nation have completely left even the scraps of society they have left. Cult of Fenris to fight the Wyrm at any cost and the Stargazers to think on things.

The only thing these young garou can do is to guard a sacred place of nature with their lives and hope to survive to the next day.

The thing that makes the Project Moon universe work where W5 doesn't, is how it approaches its darkness. The city is awful and there is little way to change it for the better. But where W5 spends page upon page decrying the werewolves and how bad they are at their job with very little in the way of solutions, Project Moon games focus on pushing through all that darkness for even a sliver of light.

It is not some power of friendship thing, either. A big part of the game Library of Ruina is to make peace with the wrongs of the past and move onward by letting go of old grudges for your own sake. The characters have done horrible things to each other and letting go is much much MUCH easier said than done, at times even looked down upon. Moving on takes effort from both the characters and the player.

There is hope, as small and fleeting as it may feel at times, but it is there.

Another aspect where Project Moon's world manages better is the way it treats its horrors. World of Darkness 5th edition has gotten a lot of flak from how it treats its horror carelessly and inserts things based on current events when doing so would be tasteless.

In Project Moon games, for one, there is zero sexual violence. The setting manages to be horrible with zero mentions of SA and CSE. In fact, the evil in Project Moon games is banal. It is a job, a way to pay rent, a scholarship, a way to feed the masses and so on. One job literally entails scraping skinned people off walls and turning them back to normal. One way to pay rent is to obey random orders like stabbing the 58th person you meet on the street.

In both cases, the setting is dark and grim but while W5 focuses on the misery without giving the players a chance to affect it, Project Moon games focus on untangling the misery and trying to work out a solution among the horror and carcasses.

In terms of writing, you need hope to showcase the darkness as it is. Without light to shine even a little, you will never get a sense things could be better. This is something Project Moon understands and W5 lost in its translation to WoD5.

[colorisbyshe]

So, my anti-Jeremy Renner post blew up and as sometimes happens when posts blow up, a bunch of TERFs got in my notes. I do a fairly systemic purge whenever this happens. I go onto each one I can find in the notes of that post and go through their blogs, blocking any other TERF I can find on their blog and going through the blogs of any URL I see multiple times so I can block all of the TERFs on their blogs. Literally blocked over 500 people, from big name blogs, to just some frequent rebloggers. ANd many, many pathetic randoms who can’t get a single note on their posts but desperately try anyways.

I have been a bit vague and flippant about this because bitching about them only ever fuels their victim complexes and often fuels their desire to engage and get attention. Me saying I don’t want TERFs engaging with that post made multiple TERFS ignore my boundaries and lack of consent, engage, and laugh about it. I know there’s no “winning” with them, so I don’t like arguing with them. It is identical to arguing with MAGA freaks--the level of delusion is impenetrable and it often only ends up traumatizing the people most hurt by them, by making them witness hatred and ignorance.

I instead try to be a positive force and just speak out in support of trans women to make where I stand clear.

But apparently I haven’t been clear enough because through this systemic weeding of my notes I have discovered multiple TERF followers, some because of the anti-Jeremy Renner post but some have been here a while. They weren’t obvious via URL or bio but going on their blogs made things clear quite quickly.

So, I just want to say it here.

I am a nonbinary woman. I am AFAB. I was born with a puss puss and I naturally grew tits with puberty. I am by every TERF’s definition “a woman” and it is with that clarified I will say--Trans women specifically have been more foundational to my understanding of gender, myself, and the world at large and my LOVE of my gender, myself, and the world at large than most other groups of people.

Trans women have done more good for me specifically and the world at large than any trans exclusive radical feminist ever has.

Reading the words and experiences of trans women has actually brought me more in harmony with the “woman” part of “nonbianry woman” and it has done so more than any fucking uterus-obsessed, menstrual blood-smeared, trauma-based one-dimensional nonsense TERFs have shat out and have forced the rest of us to witness.

Understanding transness on the whole has made me better appreciate the diversity of human experience and the boundless ways we can love each other and ourselves. It has made me dig deeper on how my life and society has shaped me and made me willing to stand up against societal expectations. I am the one who gets to define who I am. Not what I was born with. I am not a human seeking out the perfectly shaped hole to crush myself and lose myself inside. I am a million different things in vessel waiting to expand outwards and inwards at the same time, bound by fucking nothing.

Transness is beautiful. It is nuanced. It allows each person to get closer to the infinite.

Hatred of trans people in general but trans women specifically has no fucking place in my life, on my blog. I seek out liberation against all oppression and leave no woman behind in that.

I’m not going to give in to what any shit tier human being wants and wish violence upon y’all like you want. I’m not going to feed your martyrdom. I am just going to say I wish you a broader understanding of the world and deeper wells of empathy and love.

I don’t know if it’s simply a power trip y’all are on, eager to finally have a group you can punch down on, or if something truly went wrong in your lives where you have to have a fear response to someone more vulnerable than yourself. But get the fuck over it, grow up, and do better. You deserve harsher words but I will not give in and give them to you so you can lay yourselves upon the cross and weep about it.

Womanhood doesn’t benefit from this shit. Society doesn’t benefit from this shit. And frankly we’ve had enough fucking suffering without self righteous bigots making it fucking worse while pretending it’s progress.

Trans women are women. And trans women belong in “woman only” spaces more than trans-exclusive bigots ever will.

[voidpumpkin]

You always have interesting opinions, and apologies in advance if this is too specific of a question, but, in your perspective, what do you think is a children's movie that had a moral/message that you disagree(d) with or think was poorly executed? Not something people say all the time like Beauty and the Beast and kidnapping and whatever, but like, I've seen people argue on the message/theme of Ratatouille (cannot recall what this argument is for the life of me), but just as an example.

nah, you touched upon something I've been hoping people would ask. I unfortunately don't have one for kids movies, all the ones that come to mind work, or work whilst being flawed, or do in fact work it's just that the popular analyses' are dumb

so I'm replacing 'movie' with 'tv show' and talking about steven universe as its the only thing I can think of that fits your question

It's messages of non-violence, communication and forgiveness are undermined by the setting. By using war and colonialism as the framing device all of its messaging takes upon weird implications and falling into tired tropes of sympathesing for colonisers. The diamonds have done a LOT of shit than is too one to one to real world atrocties that people directly affected by it saw the implications of forgiving them and took umbrage, also the sheer amount bad stuff they've done and the lack of time and effort put into their redemption also results in people just not liking or believing it. Not helped by the fact that the story gives more time to the colonisers than their victims

(the missed opportunity that was trying to slowly heal and learn about the corrupted gems will always make me angry)

Then there's pink diamond, the revelation of rose is pink ruins any and all sympathy you have as the diamonds go from 'women who tragically lost their daughter' to 'women dealing with the consequences of their own actions because their daughter fled their mistreatment and opposed their colonialism'

there's also the fact the final arc is rushed beyond belief meaning any and all nuance is squandered, and if one replies 'they didn't have time, the show was cancelled', my response is, 'if they didn't have time to make a good story then they shouldn't have at all.'

It's messaging about nonviolence has always had weird implications due to the episode that started it, bismuth, has Steven telling a black coded women that killing oppressors to end their oppression makes her as bad as them. This reasoning is never dealt with again and looms over all future messaging.

also in a post trump world the pre trump conceived story of 'reaching to redeem/change your bigoted relatives' has aged extremely poorly.

tl;dr i can't think of a bad message in a movie but I can in a show. Steven universe, it's high stakes setting and post war/colonial backdrop creates weird/bigoted implications for its messages

[renee-writer]

Baby Girl Chapter 12

AO3

Fraser and Fitz stand at the site where the last body was found. She was posed on a park bench, like a mannequin or a doll. There were no signs of violence so they are waiting on the autopsy.

 

“Who found her?” Fitz asks the detective.

 

“The O’Leary ‘s. They we’re walking their dog and came upon her.” They all over to the shaken couple.

 

“At first we thought it was a display or something.” Mr. O’Leary is saying.

 

“Paddy he, he knew. He stopped still and peed all over himself. Let out the most awful sound ye ever did hear.” His wife adds. Paddy, a huge Irish Setter, sits huddled between them.

 

“We only touched her neck. Felt the cold flesh and…”

 

“Agent Fitzgibbons and Agent Fraser from Scotland Yard. Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?”

 

“No. We walk this path everyday before I head off to work and she heads home. The children are off to school and this is our time before…”

 

“We understand. Any vehicle that seemed out of place, a person you don’t  recall seeing about?” Fraser asks.

 

“No nothing but… who could do such a thing?”

 

“That is what we are going to find out.”

 

At the morgue

 

“She has been in a coma.” The mortician tells John and Gel. “Induced by a series of drugs, just like the last victim.”

 

“The cause of death?” Geillis asks.

 

“The COD is the same, potassium. It was given through an IV to induce heart failure.”

 

“Any sign of sexual abuse?”

 

“Yes. Tearing and bruising. A rape kit was done. We will see if this bastard left any DNA.”

 

“Was this also consistent with the other victim?” John asks.

 

“Eh, he seems to be making his own living sex dolls.”

 

“Hey handsome, I have some missing persons that match the other victims. Two that look especially promising. Dana Ferguson, missing a week and Windy George, missing ten days. Their info is sent to all of you.”

 

“Thank you Baby girl .” He runs his hand through his hair as he paces around in a circle.

 

“I have faith that you guys can get him.”

 

“We have to. He is making living sex dolls out of them.” Claire closes her eyes as a shutter goes through her.

 

“Good Lord!”

 

Mary addressing the press.

 

“This man is abducting women, tall with long dark hair, aged in their early twenties. The buddy system is your friend. Stay together. Be on the lookout for men that pay unusual attention to you. Check your vehicles before you get in them, including under them. We don’t yet know how this ladies are being taken so stay vigilant.”

[adamwatchesmovies]

Death Wish II (1982)

While I didn't enjoy this film, that doesn't mean you won't. No matter what I say, the people involved in this project did it: they actually made a movie. That's something to be applauded. With that established...

I’m fairly sure everyone involved in the making of Death Wish II knew they were making trash, which begs the question: why was this movie made? This is exploitative, cynical filmmaking that does little more than re-iterate everything that was said and done in the first but worse.

After Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) comes home to find his maid and daughter raped and murdered by the thugs who stole his wallet, he returns to his vigilante ways.

Woah, Woah! Slow down Death Wish 2! TWO of Kersey’s close ones get raped and murdered? Save some of them for Death Wish 3! I mean, otherwise what crime will the incompetent police force fail to solve, forcing Kersey to take the law into his own hands AGAIN? If you’ve seen Death Wish, you’ve seen Death Wish 2. There’s something particularly vile about this action film, and it isn’t only the excessive amount of female nudity as the hooting criminals gleefully lick their lips while ripping off the women’s clothes. Say what you will about the first but it was exactly that, THE FIRST. You needed to show those trauma-inducing moments to make you understand why Kersey would take the law into his own hands. This time, director Michael Winner's only objective is to exploit the audience. It's so manipulative you'll be tricked into wanting to see violent revenge fantasies brought to life by a man that’s way too old to play the role he’s playing. The criminals in this film do nothing BUT victimize women and torment innocent people. They're cartoons.

This picture has nothing to say, even if you haven’t seen Death Wish or its innumerable clones. We do not explore the toll this violence has upon Kersey beyond his lust for revenge. There are no moral dilemmas about the vengeance he rains down upon the thugs (which, if it interests you, includes a young Laurence Fishburne III). The topic of vigilante justice is never shown in a balanced manner. I can’t even say the action scenes are particularly exciting, or the deaths satisfying either.

Is there ANYTHING good in this film? Well, two I suppose. The first is that because the film is obviously lewd and lurid from the first few scenes, it’s never actually as impactful as it should be. It’s the most backwards compliment I’ve ever given but it’s true; by being crappy, the film manages avoid becoming offensive. This makes it “better”. Even so, it still contains gratuitous amounts of rape so maybe I’ve just become numb to it. Your mileage will probably vary on this issue. The second “good” aspect is a scene so bad it becomes comical AND checks off an item on my list of things I’ve always wanted to see in a movie. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when a character jumps out of a window when they have no idea what’s outside. In Death Wish II, someone jumps and lands on something that kills them instantly. I’ve wanted to see that ever since I sat through 2005’s A Sound of Thunder.

Trashy, lazily written, unimaginative, tired, cheap... there are many unflattering adjectives which would comfortably fit Death Wish II. It’s wretched and I can’t imagine the next in the series will be any better. (Full-screen version on DVD, November 4, 2018)

[crashandswirl]

MUSE INFO

Name: Tiffany Valentine

Tiffany comes from the 1998 film Bride of Chucky. Some influence from the 2021 TV show Chucky. When interacting with her, there might be violence, blood, gore, murder/death, torture, and references to toxic relationships. Except for violence, all of these things will be tagged as cw: [subject] when applicable.

Eyes: Dark brown (human form); green (doll form)

Hair: Dark brown; dyed blonde

Face claim: Jennifer Tilly

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 40

Height: 5'7"/170 cm (human form); 2'6"/76 cm (doll form)

Sexual/Romantic orientation: Demisexual/biromantic

Occupation: None. If Tiff needs money, she just takes it from the people she kills.

Personality: If Tiffany is anything, it's passionate and inconsistent. When she sets her heart on a goal, she throws herself at it completely. However, her goals have a good chance of quickly changing if something goes wrong. She gives as good as she gets.

She started killing for the fun and the thrill. In her own words, it's an addiction for her. She can also be likely to murder (or enact some other form of over-the-top revenge) when she feels she's been abandoned or betrayed, though. If you come away with your life and "clean up your act"/make it up to her, she'll be happy to forgive and forget.

Tiffany is borderline unable to grasp the true severity of her crimes. She did it for your own good! Why are you so mad? That murder was just a little slip-up! It's okay, everyone has those! Why are you freaking out so much?

Tiffany had fantasized about murder for a while, but she didn't commit her first one until she met her boyfriend, Charles "Chucky" Lee Ray, the Lakeshore Strangler, during a hookup. He intended to stab her to death, but when Tiffany grinned and encouraged him to do it, he ended up stabbing the other woman in the room instead. He asked Tiffany if she wanted to join the fun, which she gleefully did. The two of them entered a relationship that became rocky before long. Eventually, Tiffany grew fed up with the fact that Chucky no longer seemed like he wanted to kill with her, and she tipped off the police about a place he was heading to. She has a low opinion of the cops and figured the most they'd do was give Chucky a good scare and/or injury, but a detective ended up killing him. Right before he died, Chucky transferred his soul into a doll. News about claims of a haunted doll from one of Chucky's victims, Andy Barclay, floated around and Tiffany followed them for years. In 1998, she successfully found the remains of Chucky's doll body and brought him back to life. However, upon finding out he didn't intend to propose to her like she thought, she locked him in a crib. Thoroughly pissed off, Chucky broke free, scared her in the bath, and she ended up being electrocuted to death when her TV got knocked into the tub. Chucky transferred her soul into a doll, leaving her trapped in it until she could find a suitable replacement.

Other:

I always default to using human Tiffany when replying to asks/tags, so if you'd like to interact with her doll form, please specify!

Tiffany's preferred murder weapon is her metal nail file, which she often keeps in her bra. When she's looking to get things done quickly, her go-to is to slit throats from behind.

[clonehub]

People say that the reason young men go down the alt right pipeline is because of their asocial behavior, their loneliness, their feelings of being left behind by society. This is only partly the truth. They also go down those pipelines because they're being told things that they already agree with. The pipelines don't just say "you're a good guy who deserves the world", they say "you deserve the world--isnt it crazy how the women and the minorities keep denying you your rights?" They prey upon and exacerbate the biases that these young men already hold. Men who are insecure and broke but who are smart enough not to blame women and minorities for it don't fall down those pipelines. It's the men who are already misogynistic, already racist, already looking for someone to beat down to make themselves feel better.

There are many forms of violence inherent to fascism, but from what I've seen and experienced, there's not a single avowed fascist who actually disagrees with or is uncomfortable with the violence they commit. They want it. They think it's necessary to achieve the society they want to see. It's fundamental to their otherwise thin and contradictory ideology.

Which is why, whenever a character chooses to be an imperial, it's important to show that their choice is double sided. There's the personal gain and then externalized aspects of that ideology.

Which is also why half these Fascist Rehabilitation & Redemption Projects fall flat and slide down into dangerous messaging to me. The writers continually forget about (or ignore) the violence that character committed against others in the pursuit of their fascist goals. They only focus on the personal feelings, the "I felt left out and left behind, I felt insecure" (not even the arrogance or the entitlement) and they rush to remedy those feelings by having other characters forgive and accept them.

"I wanted someone who was loyal to me, but I realized the Empire would never do that" is not, in fact, an admission of guilt or wrongdoing, and is not an acknowledgement of the senseless pain and violence enacted against minorities/marginalized people. And I'm not the kind of person where I read btw the lines for something as heavy as this. This needs to be explicit. In our current sociopolitical climate, you can't just assume that someone is against certain forms of violence or oppression.

"I made a mistake" does not cover it. Mistake is far too gentle a word to describe joining a genocidal, oppressive regime.

"I made a mistake because I was insecure and big-headed and wanted to feel important. I joined the Empire because I thought it was the right thing to do." And they stop just shy of acknowledging that part of the "right thing" in their eyes was killing civilians. Extrajudicial executions.

People join fascist organizations and regimes because they agree with the messaging. I cannot stress this enough. They want and like the violence. These characters are required to renounce the violence and actively work to undo the harm they've done. Those are my standards. Others may feel differently. But I've witnessed and experienced too many """ex-white supremacist""" and """ex-fascists""" people in real life to believe for a second that leaving the ideology means they actually respect and hold space for minorities, and that they condemn the violence. Those people still very much center themselves and their (largely white) voices and experiences, and demand patience, concern, and forgiveness from the marginalized people around them.

Anything else is just apologia. It sidelines and disregards the actual victims and makes the perpetrators out to be the first and last victims of an ideology they created specifically to benefit themselves. That's contradictory.

Ask yourself why writers insist on humanizing and exploring and making sympathetic characters of white men who choose violent ideologies, and why these white men rarely if ever have to seriously confront the damage they done to others. Ask yourself why there's always a member of the oppressed people or a white woman/girl who's ready to forgive them, ready to insist "there is still good in him". Ask yourself why there's such a misbalance of focus on the dual-sided ideology of fascism; why the feelings and insecurities of those who join are given the spotlight with the ultimate goal of forgiveness.

And me personally? I don't care. I don't care how insecure or arrogant or confused or earnest a person was. I don't care how poor or hungry or in debt they were. They had a certain comfort with violence that takes ages to remedy. I'm not a hand holder. I don't have the patience and I respect myself too much. I prefer media where they explain why someone would be a fascist and then kill them. This "I can fix him" attitude as it's presented in star wars is steeped in racism and misogyny and serves no other purpose than to support the status quo: marginalized people must forgive their oppressors. Marginalized people are not allowed to remain angry, seek revenge, and refuse contact with the people who hurt them. Ultimately, the oppressor is the final determiner of their own and their victims' morals. They are the metric by which goodness and purity are defined. To stray is to fail, and be worse than the oppressor themselves.

Frankly I wish star wars would stop with trying to show redemption stories through people who willingly join fascist governments and/or commit genocide it's very tiring.

[rookie-critic]

Decision to Leave (2022, dir. Park Chan-wook) - review by Rookie-Critic

Decision to Leave is a tense noir-ish thriller with a ton of style and great performances. The newest from Oldboy director Park Chan-wook, the film is a subdued effort from the filmmaker, who is normally noted for the striking brutal violence in his films like the Vengeance series and Oldboy. While the difference in tone and intensity is noticeably different, the visual style of the film is still unmistakably his, and it's great. The cinematography of this film is gorgeous, and one of the biggest triumphs the movie has is the lighting. All of the decisions regarding the way things were lit and framed in this film feel very intentional and like it was done with purpose. It's a truly beautiful film and everything on the technical and visually artistic level is near perfection.

On the flip side, while the story is also very good, it feels like it can't quite keep up with that stellar style. There are a good handful of scenes that definitely feel like they are done with a style-over-substance mindset, and while there's nothing inherently wrong with that, it can be done to great effect, here I found it more distracting than anything. The story of a respected, hard-boiled detective that gets too emotionally invested in the personal life of a suspect in a murder case (the victim's widow, at that), this movie screams film-noir from a plot perspective, equal parts Maltese Falcon and Casablanca. It plays out with plenty of twists and reveals that are all very gripping, and the film manages to keep the audience's attention through most of its runtime. I can't really say the film dragged or rushed itself at all, but there was something about the way it all plays out and that semi-frequent sacrifice of style over substance that kept this from being truly great for me. In the spirit of full transparency, I did see this on a day where I was particularly physically and mentally fried, and I don't think I really gave this film the full breadth of my attention and mental focus, so maybe upon a re-watch (which I do plan on doing at some point) I will change my tune, but for now, I will give it this score, which is still pretty great, if you ask me.

Score: 8/10

Currently streaming on MUBI.

I really do hate when I feel like I haven't given a movie everything I've got prior to writing its review, and I thought about not even putting this up right now until I did have that chance to re-watch. So, with that in mind, I might make an amended review once that happens.

[joannechocolat]

White feminists, I’m looking at you.

Another week, another raft of Press articles by self-professed white “feminists”, defending their own prejudice by bashing other women. It’s as if they can’t stop themselves, these women of a certain age, a certain class and a (very) certain privilege, who seem quite happy to see women abused, as long as those women are different from their own privileged circle of friends.

These are the women who “don’t see” race, and who think that counts as a virtue.

These are the women who “don’t see” class, or disability, or neurodiversity, or gender, except perhaps for that one friend, who represents all others, and will be used as proof of their tolerance and lack of prejudice whenever the question arises.

These are the women I interact with every day, many of whom I think of as being decent, well-meaning people.

But in actual fact, not seeing race (or gender, or class, or disability) just means you don’t see your own prejudice. I get it: it’s very convenient not to be able to see how one’s privilege impacts on others. Because as soon as you can see that, things start to get uncomfortable. Criticisms people make of you start to seem more justified. It becomes harder and harder to hide behind your comforting circle of friends - all of whom are telling you that you’re right, you’re good, you’re kind, in fact, you’re the real victim if ever your prejudices are called out– your friends, who think just like you.

But here’s the thing. We’re all privileged. We all have unconscious bias. Just because we’re women in a patriarchal society, doesn’t mean we’re not capable of punching down at someone more vulnerable, or causing another person – or group of people - to do so. And let’s face it; those people are usually men. Misogyny loves it when women attack other women. And it’s intersectional. Look closer, and you’ll find how often it leads to racism, ableism and transphobia.

I’m looking at you, white feminists. Using the patriarchy to confirm your own social and racial prejudices, rather than hearing the voices of those women who most need your support. Women of colour. Trans women. (And no, I’m not going to let you deflect by arguing about what exactly makes a woman – there are plenty of people who have done that. Read them if you want to.) What really matters is not whether someone looks or thinks or behaves like you. What really matters is who suffers harm, and who benefits from your actions.

Women are in a majority. Sometimes we forget this. We fight against sexism and prejudice as if we were a minority group. We’re not – or at least, we wouldn’t be, if we didn’t keep splitting into factions, attacking each other, then looking all surprised when the patriarchy keeps rolling on, harming women everywhere. And the saddest part is that we have so much potential energy. If only that energy were directed to bashing the actual patriarchy, rather than by heaping blame upon the women who are its victims, we might be making progress instead of tearing each other apart.

I’m looking at you, white feminists. I know how angry you must feel when people call you prejudiced. I know you’re used to the moral high ground, to the feeling that you’re the real victims of a system that’s loaded against you. And I know that when people call you racist, or ableist, or transphobic, it feels like abuse. It feels that way because you’ve never really considered your privilege in all this. You’ve never really considered the impact your words – amplified by social media, or published in the national Press - might have on real-life people.

You really need to do that. And no, it isn’t easy. First, you have to suppress that urge you have to tell the world that you’re special and different, and therefore have no unconscious prejudice. You’re not, and you do. The fact that you don’t think you have any is precisely because it’s unconscious prejudice. Unconscious prejudice is like a black hole: only detectable through its actions. And if your actions cause POC harm - or trans people, or autistic people, or any other marginalized group likely to receive abuse, or worse, because of something you said, or did – then you need to understand what you did, and acknowledge it.

The first and most important thing is to understand is that this isn’t about you. Too many people fixate on whether or not they’re really racist (or sexist, or ableist, or transphobic) instead of looking further. I get it. It’s easier to focus on the words and what they mean, rather than the reason they were used in the first place. So stop thinking about the words, and think about what you did, instead. Consider whether you said or did something that was harmful. You’re not in the best position to judge. (Unconscious bias, remember?) So listen to your critics. Instead of feeling offended that someone used an ugly word, ask yourself why they used it. Look at their reasons, not yours. Understand their perspective.

That means first putting aside all your excuses and justifications. This isn’t about you, remember? No-one cares why you made a mistake. You might have done it by accident. You might have done it out of ignorance. You might have stuff going on in your life that made you careless or vulnerable.  But this isn’t about you. No-one cares why you caused harm. All that matters is that you did. The harm might be direct – causing offense to someone through your words or actions – or indirect – for instance, reinforcing harmful stereotypes, or attracting the kind of negative attention that might result in trolling, doxxing or violence.

Whatever it was, if that happens, the first thing to do is to acknowledge it. Own it without making excuses, or arguing over semantics, or talking about your feelings, or making the process about you.

And no, it isn’t easy. It involves centring the conversation around someone other than you. You may not be used to doing this. It may make you feel uncomfortable. It may even upset you. But remember, this isn’t about how you feel. The fact that you’re instinctively trying to make this about you, even now, should be telling you something.

So yes, get over your feelings. If you said or did something that’s likely to cause harm to someone, own it. Educate yourself. Apologize. Move on, with a greater awareness of what you need to do to improve. That’s all. We’re none of us perfect: we all make mistakes. But when we do, we need to put ego aside, and try to stop repeating them.

Only then will feminism stop tearing itself apart. Only then will feminism be truly deserving of the name - when white women finally understand that if they continue to support and care for only the women who look and think as they do, then the patriarchy wins, and that they are doing its work.

White feminists, I’m looking at you.

White feminists, I’m looking at me.