#Country Identification Game

[rebeccathenaturalist]

So in writing the history of identification/taxonomy chapter for The Everyday Naturalist, I spent a lot of time poring over scans and reprints of very old western European natural history books. This included a lot of medieval bestiaries, which were usually illuminated manuscripts with the colorful, stylized artwork so common from that era. It wasn't until the European Renaissance that you started seeing more of an emphasis on realistic artwork, and by the time you get to the transitional period between the late Renaissance and the Enlightenment engravings based on original drawings were very common for illustrating books on animals and plants.

A lot of the images passed around as "antique scientific illustrations" stem from the mid-17th century Historiae Naturalis written by John Jonston and illustrated by Matthäus Merian the Elder. By this point in history numerous European nations were sending ships around the globe to bring back resources, which included a significant number of natural history specimens. The sheer variety and biodiversity represented by these gave naturalists in these countries an overwhelming amount of fodder for study, classification, and publication.

However, there was still the perennial problem that not everyone writing or illustrating these seemingly exotic species could access them in person. Medieval bestiaries, and their predecessor the Physiologus, tended to mix natural history with religious allegory, and often the writers had never actually seen the species they were describing. Since they had to go on secondhand (or thirdhand, or fifteenthhand) information, things sometimes got lost in translation like a big game of Telephone. And the situation was still the same by the time Jonston and Merian were working on the Historiae Naturalis.

Which is why that venerable attempt to catalog as many of the animals in the known world as possible includes, amid pages of real animals like molluscs, deer, and bats (categorized with the birds!), you also had descriptions and engravings of six different unicorn species. Jonston did remark that he was going entirely on the word of others and cited his sources wherever he could, but it seems as though most of them were treating the unicorn as a separate beast from the rhinoceros or antelopes. (You can find a scan of the entire Historiae Naturalis de Quadrupedibus here, if you want to read for yourself.)

This is probably the last major natural history work in which unicorns and other mythical animals would be presented as equally real as flesh-and-blood animals; once the Enlightenment got into full swing, the sciences sought empirical evidence, and hearsay was generally no longer considered good enough for publication. So there's something a little charming about this text that bridges the gap between the ancient bestiaries with their blurring of fact and fiction, and the modern emphasis on chasing down the truth behind the myths.

#natural history #Historiae Naturalis #scientific illustration #antique illustration #vintage illustration #bestiaries #science #unicorns #animals #wildlife #nature #Renaissance #medieval art #medieval history #bestiary #history #art history #antique animals

[sentientcave]

You Drive Me Wild - Nikolai x OC It's October 1990, and Nikolai is a soldier, guarding the Soviet embassy in Copenhagen. It's a dull assignment, with dull comrades, the only bright spot of his station the days away from the embassy, when he can get to know this new city and her people. It's one of these nights when a woman he's been dreaming about walks into a smoky bar, and into his arms at last.

Contains: Alcohol, smoking, age-gap relationship, plain text is "translated" Russian (Since it is Nikolai's perspective), English in italics, pining, low-key hero worship, oral sex, unprotected (oops) sex. (Let me know if I missed something!)

~7.3k - MDNI!! - Intended for mature audiences

Read on AO3

Copenhagen, October 5th, 1990

Copenhagen was… Alright. 

Nikolai had gotten a cushy sort of assignment, thanks to Natalia’s connections, guarding the Soviet embassy. Mostly all he had to do was stand around and look threatening, check identification at the gate, occasionally follow the ambassador around to some function or another. It wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t exciting. It just… was. Days bled into each other like cheap watercolour paint, edges blurred and indistinct. The routine chafed at him. He had gotten too used to freedom, running wild between Leningrad and the farmhouse out in Kyrelia, skipping school and occasionally helping his uncle with work, which was more likely to end in real action than anything he did at the embassy. A high-speed car chase through fields of rye was good fun, and a knife-fight in a back alley was better. 

Still, there was a certain thrill to getting out of Russia— A few runs across the border into Finland hadn’t given him much idea of what life was like outside, and he was eager to taste what the West had to offer him. He spent every moment that he could off base, practising his languages, picking up pretty brunettes (English and American ones, when he could), listening to music that hadn’t been approved by any government agency, played in basement bars, laced with anger and heavy guitar, the air heavy with smoke and the smell of sweat. He would have spent too much of his meagre salary going out to bars around the city, if he didn’t so often wind up with more cash in his pockets than when he left, betting on games of pool and poker and winning more often than not. 

He had a few favourite establishments, ones with a higher turnover rate of tourists. It was harder to shark the same people twice, but cocky American tourists provided good hunting for a fresh-faced soldier who was oh so good at pretending to be a simple country boy. It was their own arrogance that lost the games before they had even begun. Nikolai had no qualms about using that American bluff and bluster to his advantage. This particular bar was near some of the embassies and plenty of hotels, and he’d already made a hundred American dollars playing pool with chain of unlucky marks (So typical of Americans to carry their own currency in another country). He sat at the bar considering his next move. He felt no particular urge to play any longer, or to return to his comrades, sitting at a table on the other side of the crowded establishment. Perhaps he would try his luck with the table of leggy blond women in the back corner of the smoky bar. One of them had been throwing smiles his way for the past half-hour. Pussy was pussy, even if he did prefer brunettes with thick, muscular thighs. 

“You should play another round of pool,” Ivan, one of his fellow embassy guards said in his ear, half crashing into him from behind, knocking Nikolai into the bar and nearly spilling his beer. “There is a beautiful woman who’s about to beat a couple of Germans, you could have next game.” 

Nikolai made a disgruntled sound. “I’m done for tonight,” he said, draining the rest of his beer. “You play her.” He had neglected to return to the table with Ivan and the others for a reason. He was tired of the usual posturing and boisterous behaviour already, and they had really only started in on their night. They often made fun of him for calling it early, or not trying to keep up with them, but it was always his turn to feel superior in the morning, when they could hardly open their eyes. 

“Ah, come on, Kolyan. I can’t speak German or English. She will look at me like I’m a fool if I try to speak to her.” Ivan relied too heavily on Nikolai when it came to women. He made no effort to learn other languages, putting him at a disadvantage talking to local and tourist alike in Copenhagen, where Danish, English, German and even French were the best bets for communication.

“Maybe she speaks Russian.” 

Ivan scoffed. “Unlikely. She looks American.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes, but turned to look, rewarded with the sight of a round ass wearing a pair of blue jeans bent over the table. A brunette, with shiny, slightly curling hair pulled into a high ponytail, wearing a leather jacket. Judging by the looks on the faces of the two blond giants across from her, she was about to clear the table. And she was just Nikolai’s type, by the shape of her. 

He ordered two shots of whiskey, and when he turned to look around again, the woman had circled to the other side of the table. Nikolai’s heart stammered to a stop for a moment, bounced against the bottom of his stomach, and lurched back into motion as it landed hard in it’s usual place. 

Helena.

She sank the eight ball, grinning like a wolf, her red-painted lips stark contrast against her white teeth. “Sorry, boys. That’s game,” she told them in that pretty English accent of hers. “Better luck next time.”

Nikolai slapped a few krone on the bar and picked up the shot glasses, sidling up to Helena, setting them on the water-stained wooden edges of the pool table. “Lena,” he said, puffing himself up a bit. He had no need to pitch his voice lower now, or pull himself ramrod straight to give him the extra height.  He was undoubtedly a man now, with a days worth of stubble on his chin and enough experience with women that he would not turn pink or stammer when she looked at him. She would have to see that. “Have a drink with me.”

Her attention snapped away from the Germans and to him, eyes devastatingly sharp on their first pass, until recognition softened her features with a smile half a heartbeat later. “Kolya?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she seized him around the neck, pulling him into a tight hug. 

Nikolai wrapped his arms around her waist, picking her up and spinning her in a tight circle, breathing in the smell of cigarettes and sweet, spicy perfume. He was a lot taller than she was now, and she fit into his arms better than a dream, with weight and substance. The last time he had seen her, three years that felt like a lifetime ago, they had been the same height. 

“I’m a soldier now,” he told her as he set her back down on her feet, his hands lingering on her hips just a moment longer than necessary. He had no desire to let her go, but he did. “Stationed at the embassy. Aunt Talia pulled strings. It’s an easy assignment.”

“They made you cut your hair.” She rubbed a hand over his head, her hand sliding down the back of his neck before she let it fall back to her side. “It’s too bad. The long hair suited you.”

Nikolai nudged her gently, picking the shots up again and handing one to her. “I’ll grow it back once I’m my own man again. For you.”

He loved the way her eyes creased when she smiled. “Good.” They knocked their glasses together and downed them at the same time. “You still smoke?” she asked, inclining her head towards the door. “I was about to step outside.”

“You can smoke in here.” A bluish haze hung in the air above their heads, swirling whenever someone opened the door to admit a fresh gust of air, and many patrons of the bar had lit cigarettes in their hands, smoke drifting upwards with every exhale. 

“I know. But it’s loud. I want to catch up.” 

He would never argue against taking a moment alone with her. “As you wish.” He gestured for her to walk ahead of him. He could feel Ivan’s eyes on the back of his neck, so he shot a quick, gloating glance over his shoulder at his open-mouthed comrade, and then dashed ahead to open the door for Helena. 

They stepped into the cool night air, and Helena pulled a pack of smokes out of her inner jacket pocket and thumbed one up enough that she could pull it out with her mouth, and offered the pack to Nikolai while she dug her lighter out of the front pocket of her jeans. 

“You’re here on business?” Nikolai held her wrist steady as he plucked a cigarette from the pack, fingers moving fast enough that he hoped she wouldn’t notice that he took one that had the slightest smudge of red lipstick on it. He might be a man, but he didn’t harbour any illusions about his chances with Helena. An indirect kiss was the best he could hope for. 

Lena tucked the pack into her pocket again, nodding. “Yes. Finished up now. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.” She lit her own cigarette and held up the lighter for him, her other hand cupped around the flame to protect it from the chilly breeze that rolled down the well-lit streets.

“That’s too bad. I have a few days off. It would be nice to spend some time with you.” He braced a hand on the wall behind her as he leaned in, meeting her eyes evenly. Did he just imagine that little hitch of breath? The spark of interest in her dark brown eyes?

She looked away, flicking the lighter closed. “I could maybe stick around another day.”

“Maybe another two?” he asked playfully. He was still looming over her, not touching, but close enough to share heat. She didn’t move away. 

“We’ll see.” She braced her left elbow against her hand, setting the cigarette to her lips, her eyes everywhere but on him. Perhaps her stance was protective, hesitant, but still… Something had very obviously shifted between them. 

Her wedding band was missing. 

After three years of pining and chasing any woman that reminded him even a little of Helena, it was a cold-water shock to the system to imagine that the real thing was suddenly attainable. Fate had smiled at him, led them to each other on a chilly autumn night in a city big enough that they could have easily sailed right past each other, not even knowing that the other was near. Nikolai was no longer a child, he was tall and strong like a man worthy of her ought to be, and she was as beautiful as he remembered, sloe-eyed and ageless, and she was not wearing a wedding ring. 

Still, his chances balanced like a knife tip on a finger. It would be easy to move to fast or too slow, to ask the wrong question or provide the wrong answer. Helena might still think him too young. He could stumble and show his limited experience, let the facade of confidence slip, allow the knife to tumble, sharp and glittering, to the ground.  

He resisted the urge to touch one of the escaped wisps of hair that framed her face, curling in the damp sea air. "Do you ever wear your hair down?" he asked, pivoting away from the inclination to ask about her marriage. Maybe that would be a conversation for a few drinks later. 

"Not really," she said, finally looking up at him again, tucking one of those escaped curls behind her ear. "Why?" 

"Just wondering. I think I only even saw it down once. It is always business with you. Practicality." 

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Certainly not. It is just curiosity." 

"Hm. Of course.” The look she gave him was strange, fond but slightly suspicious, like she knew that there was something unsaid underneath his casual tone, but hadn’t quite figured out what. “How is the family?” Her turn to pivot, turning the conversation away from herself and back to predictable waters. “Last time I spoke to Talia she said she was expecting another baby." 

Nikolai nodded. "Yes. Due soon. Maybe inside the month. And little Aleksei just turned three. Getting bigger every day. Talking endlessly, asking a thousand questions every day. Wants to know the whys of every little thing. How is your son? Ten now, yes?" 

"Yes. He's a smart boy. Very capable. He's an expert marksman already. Hits a dead eye on a moving target eight times out of ten." 

"Impressive." 

“He’s got no real sense for flying though. Taken him up a few times, but he doesn’t like heights. Poor kid.”

Nikolai laughed, struck, not for the first time, at the absurdity of her being a mother at all. She had patience, but little softness, more a captain training a recruit than a mother teaching her son, more concerned with toughness and survival than anything else. She was a hawk nudging her fledgling out of the nest and hoping he would fly. “He is only ten years old, Lena,” he reminded her. “You cannot expect him to be an expert in all things.”

“Well, I suppose not. He’s a pretty good driver, at least.” 

Ivan tumbled out the door, followed by Iosif and Pyotr, the three of them laughing. Like Nikolai, they had gotten their stations in Copenhagen due to connections, but unlike Nikolai, they didn’t take an ounce of it seriously. Nikolai was no nationalist, but he did respect the training. He knew he could outrun, out-lift and out-shoot all three of them. And when it came to thinking, he was many miles ahead as well. 

“Kolyan! We thought you left us behind,” Pyotr said. “But no, you are just out here with a beautiful woman.” 

“Helena,” Lena supplied, giving them a half-wave with her nearly spent cigarette. 

“Pyotr,” he replied, giving her a wide smile. He was tall as Nikolai, and blond and handsome in an annoying, self-aware way. “Ivan, and Iosif,” he added, pointing to the others in turn. “You don’t look Russian.” They were all so surprised when someone could speak more languages then they were born with, as though their own ignorant refusal to learn to communicate was the norm.

“I’m English,” she said. “A friend of Kolya’s family.”

Iosif gave Helena a look that lingered too long everywhere but her face. It made Nikolai want to punch him repeatedly. “You’re very beautiful,” Iosif said bluntly. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She smiled at him, the wolfish one that was all bared teeth and thinly-veiled threat, and dropped her cigarette to the damp ground, stepping on it to ensure it was fully out. “No. I buy my own drinks.”

“Kolyan bought you a drink,” Iosif protested. 

“I don’t like you as much as I like him,” Lena said, shrugging. “There are no debts between us.” 

Of course she would say so. She didn’t tally favours against friends, no concern for balanced books when the scales were tipped her way. He didn’t operate like that— Couldn’t afford to let favours accumulate interest, liked to collect sooner rather than later, keeping his own ledger clear. But it was staggering, how much he owed her. For the gifts, his flight lessons, the dust up in Leningrad where he had gotten injured, cornered and nearly killed, and she had taken down two men with her boot knife and bare hands. “Not quite,” Nikolai said softly. “My life is yours.” Perhaps it was nothing to her, just another day in a life filled with violence, but he would certainly not forget the sight of her covered in someone else’s blood, rushing to his side the moment both bodies hit the floor. 

She shook her head, looking up at him. Her dark eyes looked starry, the way they cast back the orange light of streetlamps and the pink and blue neon sign from across the street, but it was hard to fathom what she was thinking, behind all that reflected colour. “No, Kolya. You owe me nothing.”

Nikolai tossed down his own cigarette and tapped his first knuckle against the bottom of her chin, leaning in a little closer. “It is really not a matter of owing, Helena,” he purred. “It is a matter of knowing where I stand.”

Her lips parted slightly, a hint of colour creeping into her pale cheeks. 

“If there is a story there, we’d like to hear it,” Pyotr said smoothly, interrupting the moment with all the grace of a bucking bull smashing through a window. “Come, let Kolyan buy you another drink, tell us why he owes you his life.”

“It is better if I tell it,” Nikolai said. “She will discount her actions, because she is as modest as she is beautiful. But it is up to her if we join you. Tonight she is my general.” He dropped his arm to her shoulders, pulling her in close. She made no move to push him away, and her body fit right in against him like she belonged there. Like she belonged with him. 

“They’re your friends, Kolya. Up to you.”

In all truth, he didn’t want to share any of her attention with them, although he did feel a certain pull to show her off some, even though she was not really his.  “One drink,” he said. “We won’t stay long.”

They crowded back into the bar, and Helena touched Nikolai's chest lightly. "I'll be right back," she said, taking off for the back corner of the bar, weaving through clumps of other patrons. It was getting busier, and a band was tuning up their instruments on the opposite side of the establishment, the noise already sending ripples through the haze of smoke. Pyotr followed him to the bar while Ivan and Iosif laid claim to one of the few remaining tables. 

"You always have good luck with women," Pyotr complained while they waited for the bartender to take notice of them. "You should leave some beautiful girls for the rest of us, no?" 

"If you learned another tongue you could speak to some of them yourself," Nikolai said. "You and Ivan should try. Iosif has been learning English. He's fucking terrible at it, but it's worth the effort. He gets dates." 

"Your Helena speaks Russian. And German?" 

"And French. Maybe more than that. She does business in many countries."

“Business? She does not look like a business woman.”

Nikolai shrugged, burying his irritation under nonchalance. “Perhaps you have a narrow mind.” 

Once they had their drinks in hand, they found the other two soldiers, and crammed into the booth with them. With four bulky men in the space, it was hard to imagine squeezing Helena into a proper seat. Nikolai wanted to kiss Ivan and Iosif on the mouth for creating a scenario where he might be able to coax Helena to sit on his lap. They were not good for much, but at least they were good for something. 

Helena reappeared at his shoulder, and Nikolai twisted to look up at her, surprised to find that she had taken her hair down from its ponytail. She looked a little wilder that way, a little younger, dark hair loose around her shoulders, curling at the ends.

"Why don't you sit with me?" Pyotr asked, patting his knee invitingly. "Pretty thing like you ought to have a man take care of you, yes?" 

Helena gave him an unamused look and hooked her arm around Nikolai's shoulders, dropping onto his thigh without any further ceremony. Nikolai wrapped his arm around her waist happily, his big hand sitting on the junction between her hip and thigh. He resisted the urge to dig his fingers in and feel her properly. "Don't get any ideas, Kolya," she told him, an attempt to be stern, although he wasn't sure either of them really believed that she meant it. "I'm far too old." 

"Not so," Nikolai said, hoping honesty would help his case. "I've been with older women than you." He preferred women to girls his own age. 

Surprise flickered across her face. She was rarely surprised, but the expression suited her, her soft red lips parting slightly, her beautiful eyes, usually half closed, opened wide. Ivan and Iosif were laughing, Iosif jostling Pyotr with his elbow for getting rejected so definitively. 

Nikolai pressed his advantage, leaning in close, his words only for her. "Perhaps you will tell me later why you have no ring on your finger." 

She turned her head slightly. They were so close that their noses almost brushed. "Kolya..." 

"Lena," he returned, nudging the tip of his nose against hers, satisfaction pooling in his belly at the was she inhaled, like she thought he was going to try to kiss her. And then he turned away, picking up his beer and nudging hers toward the corner of the table slightly.

Yes, things had certainly shifted between them.

There was something gratifying about having her there, and not just because her warm body was pressed close to his, but to have someone to exchange a look with when Pyotr said something out of touch, or when Ivan made a terrible joke. They tended to think alike, him and his sparrowhawk, and every time they looked at each other it was confirmation of the chemistry that Nikolai had long been painfully aware of, and Lena was just beginning to realize. 

When she finished her beer, she stood up, heading outside for another cigarette. She didn’t like to smoke indoors— Nikolai suspected it was more a reason to take a step outside to gather her thoughts than it was for any type of propriety. Pyotr had offered her two as they sat around the table, and she had politely declined each time. 

“I won’t be back,” he told the others, grinning wolfishly at the sour look on Pyotr’s face. “Try not to get into too much trouble without me. You will not be able to talk your way out of it.”

He found Lena around the corner, tucked into an alley to get out of the wind. The weather had a habit of shifting without warning, and there was a smell of ozone in the air, promising rain, although the sky above them was still dark and clear. 

She looked at him, but didn’t speak, simply held out her pack of cigarettes to offer him one. He lit it with his own lighter this time, nodding his thanks rather than breaking the silence. If she had something on her mind, it would be better to wait her out. So he smoked, standing a step away, watching her. He could never get tired of looking at her anyway. 

Finally, she spoke, an accusation, but delivered lightly. “You’ve been flirting.”

He nodded. The allegations were more than true. He was only glad that she could not charge him for the thoughts he’d indulged in, not simply that evening, but for a very long time. “I have.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you.” 

She dropped her spent cigarette to the ground, frowning. "Kolya, you're too young. You should be with someone your own age." 

Nikolai dropped his own cigarette and threw caution away as well, stepping forward, crowding her up against the rough brick, and cupped her face, allowing all the admiration and want that he'd tried to bury for years to rise to the surface. "I am nearly twenty. I am a soldier. Old enough to die for my country, but not old enough to want to make love to a beautiful woman I respect and adore?" 

She gripped his wrists, but didn't pull his hands away. "I--"

"No. Even before you were not happy. You deserve more, from a man who will do anything for you. Let me be that man, Lena. At least for a day or two, hm?" He pressed his lips to hers and drew back, searching her eyes for a reaction. Her grip on his wrists loosened and fell away, her palms settling against his chest instead. Not pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either. 

They looked at each other for a long moment, indecision writ in bold script across her face. Good sense would have her send him away, but it was not a night where good sense reigned supreme. They were alone, in a world that had shrank to fit just the two of them, everything else forgotten and distant. 

Her eyes dropped from his and settled on his mouth. "Oh fuck it," she said, and they crashed together desperately, her hands gripping his shirt.

Heat blazed in his chest, like a sputtering engine roaring to life. She opened up to him without him having to do any prodding, he could taste smoke and the clean burn of alcohol on her tongue as it moved against his. This was passion, not the clumsy, anxious pawing between two inexperienced people, like he was more used to, but the inevitable reaction of two people who knew exactly what they wanted. He threaded his fingers through her silky hair, angling her head slightly so he could deepen the kiss the slightest bit more, licking eagerly into her mouth. She made a soft sound, arms twining around his neck so she could press her body closer to his. He let his own hands settle on her waist. As much as he wanted to touch every inch of her, he didn't want to come across as too excitable or get carried away by his desire. He needed to make Helena melt first. His own pleasure was a guarantee. Even if she stopped him there, he had held and touched and kissed her now, and he had come many times to paltry imaginings of less.

Lena broke them apart, breathing hard, her dark eyes bright and slightly unfocused, like she had never been kissed like that. Like his kiss had left her more unsteady than the drinks, her red lipstick smeared across her mouth. “I’m staying close by,” she told him, running her thumb across the corner of his mouth, coming away with more red pigment. “Do you want—”

He cut her off with another kiss. He didn’t give a fuck if there was lipstick staining his own mouth. It was just evidence that she really had kissed him. “If you’re asking if I want to get out of here, the answer is yes.”

“Should you tell your friends?”

“No. I make it a habit to leave without saying goodbye. Especially if a beautiful woman has been sitting in my lap all evening.” He grinned, catching her hand as he stepped back. “Where are you staying?”

They walked to her hotel slowly, Nikolai stopping to kiss her at every opportunity, a little worried that she might, at any moment, come to her senses and send him on his way. He had wanted her so badly for so long, he did not wish to stop until they had tangled up together in bed, and perhaps not even then. Perhaps he could convince her to spend more time with him. Perhaps when he had served his time in the army he would be able to follow her wherever she went. 

It would likely take some convincing, but he was up to the task. In that moment, he was up to any task. 

She unlocked the door to her hotel room, her expression turning pensive. "I'm not divorced yet, we’re just separated for now. Maybe this is--"

"Lena, I am not asking you for the rest of your life." He didn't add that he would take it, if she offered it to him-- That he would take anything she offered him, no matter how big or small. "I only want to show you what you mean to me." 

She pushed the door open to let him in. "I don't-- I don't even know if we will get divorced." 

"I don't care." He did. He cared a lot, but if he said that aloud she would halt things, tell him it was for his own good. 

"Of course not. It's just a crush you want to work out of your system, right?" She smiled wryly, shedding her leather jacket and tossing it over a chair. 

"Sure." He tossed his own jacket down on top of hers and hauled her back into his arms. "Do you want to talk about this man that never deserved you? Or do you want to forget him?" He rubbed his thumb over the jagged scar on her arm, where it cut her RAF tattoo in half, his touch following it up to where it disappeared under her rolled up t-shirt sleeve and back down again. 

She drew in a shaky breath, as unsure as Nikolai had ever seen her. "He cheated on me. Said it was because I was gone so much. Guess I can’t blame him for that. Just never was able to stay home. Too much to do. Not built for domesticity.” 

“You cannot help being what you are,” Nikolai said.

Lena laughed lightly and wound her arms around his waist, her hands slipping under his shirt and curling against his back. “Are you going to tell me what I am, Kolya?” she asked, tilting her head back to look at him. 

“A sparrowhawk. A fierce little hunting bird. A warrior, perhaps, a traveller, certainly. Never the kind of woman that belongs tucked away in a kitchen somewhere. Your husband is a fool if he cannot appreciate you as you were made to be.” 

“He wants to work it out,” she warned him. “We've got so much tangled up together it might be the only thing that makes sense." 

“Perhaps. Perhaps if you must, you should allow him to chase his lesser women, so that you can spend your time with a better man.” He grinned at her and moved in for another kiss. He had said everything that needed saying, laid out what cards he thought would aid him, and kept the rest tucked away for later. She all but melted in his arms, lips parting reflexively for him. 

This time, he made no effort to restrain himself, letting his hands roam, moaning into her mouth when he finally got a handful of her backside, fingers gripping a little too tight from enthusiasm. What curves she had were incidental, from her broad-hipped build rather than much softness— Even motherhood had granted very little softness to Lena, she was packed muscle and callouses and fire, totally unlike any of the pale imitations he had found himself chasing over the past few years. Lena would always be a soldier first, it would take some effort to remind her that she was a woman too. 

Nikolai stepped forward, making Lena move backwards until her knees hit the bed, and broke the kiss so he could kiss down her neck, sucking a little too hard just below her ear, making her hiss. She gripped the collar of his shirt firmly, hauling him back a bit. “Easy,” she said, laughing. “Leave the hickies for the college girls, Kolya.”

He flushed pink, although the embarrassment from his mistake did nothing to dampen the mood, blessedly. “Sorry,” he said, knocking his forehead against hers. “You’re very hot.”

Lena grinned in response and tugged his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the side. She ran her hands over his chest, eyes following hungrily. “So are you.”

Nikolai had been hard since they started kissing outside the bar, but her words, somehow all the more genuine delivered in her own tongue, coupled with the look she gave him made him twitch, blood fully abandoning his head to travel south. He pulled her shirt off too, and kissed down her chest, cheering internally that he managed to unhook her bra on the first attempt, rather than struggling with the clasp like a schoolboy. 

Her nails grazed over his head encouragingly when he reached her small breasts, lapping his tongue across one nipple and palming the other. She made a breathy sound, and then a groan when he tested his teeth against the sensitive nub. He groaned too, some primal part of him getting off on the fact that he was making her feel good, that she was letting him touch her, that she was enjoying the feeling of his hands and lips and tongue and teeth on her skin. He felt twenty feet tall. 

Lena reached for his belt, undoing the buckle before his syrupy-slow thoughts could catch up. He broke away from her breast and caught her wrists before she could do more than undo the top button of his jeans. He was fairly sure he would spill all over her fingers if she put her hands on him. “Impatient,” he chided her, pushing her onto the bed. He sank to his knees, positioning his body between her thighs. “Ladies first.”

Her laugh was always music to his ears, but it was honey sweet now, pooling somewhere in his chest as he cut her off with another kiss. He couldn’t risk her seeing the feeling in his eyes— He knew it was too close to love, that she would realize that this meant more to him than it did to her, and she would send him away to protect him. 

He ducked his head and sank back on his haunches, pulling one of her boots into his lap so he could undo the laces and pull it free. She leaned back on her elbows to watch him, her head tipped to the side thoughtfully. Her gaze burned, but he didn’t look up until he had set both boots to the side, sliding his hands up her firm thighs to the waistband of her jeans. “These need to come off now.” 

“Now who’s impatient?” she asked teasingly, but she pitched her hips up so he could peel the denim off of her legs anyway, the heat in her eyes undeniable. 

Nikolai ran his hands up her legs reverently, dropping a kiss on the inside of her knee, torn as ever between restraint and enthusiasm. He pushed her legs open a little wider, attention fixed on her cotton-clad cunt. 

Lena gave him a sly, fox-like smile. "You want to taste me?" She asked, hooking her thumbs through the waistband of her panties. 

"More than anything," he breathed. 

"Then get to it, soldier," she said, pushing them down.

"Yes ma'am." Nikolai pulled them the rest of the way off, and tried to be subtle about shoving the (wet!) cotton in his pocket. She probably saw, but she was gracious enough to not mention it. He wasted no more time, pulling her to the edge of the bed as he peppered the inside of her thighs with kisses, eyes focused on her pretty pussy, framed by slick darkened curls. His cock throbbed as he dipped his head down, licking a broad path along her slit, groaning at the heady taste of her. He threw one of her lean legs over his shoulder and fixed his mouth to her clit, lapping his tongue across it, gripping tightly to her hips when they bucked up against him. A moan fell from Helena's mouth, prompting him to repeat the movement. 

He found a rhythm quickly, spurred on by her gasped instructions, or her hand nudging his head into just the right position. He had found that the benefit sleeping with older women was that they weren’t shy about asking for what they wanted, but Helena took it a step further and simply took, grinding against his tongue, using the leg over his shoulder to pull him closer, the other planted on his thigh so she could push him just slightly away, reminding him to breathe. As if that was important, when the sharp taste of her was heavy on his tongue and her moans were thick in the air. 

“Two fingers,” Lena gasped, nudging him back slightly to make sure he was listening. “Inside, please.”

Nikolai obeyed, leaning back to watch her face, replacing his tongue with his thumb. Her soaked cunt pulsed around his fingers, her hips canting toward his touch desperately. He curled his fingers just so, and she keened, fisting the sheets as if she were worried that she would levitate off the bed and away from his hands. “Will you come for me?” he purred. “You look so beautiful. Taste so sweet.”

His words made her gush, her walls clenching tight around him. “Fuck— Kolya!” Her whole body shuddered, pulling taut, tension snapping when he suctioned his mouth to her swollen clit once more, moaning against her as she came, as if her pleasure was his own. It nearly was. He was so hard, and his jeans so tight that he could imagine coming just from the pressure and the sweet sounds she made, although he tried not to think about that. 

She unhooked her leg from his shoulder and pushed herself into a seated position, cupping his jaw to pull him closer. “You’re pretty good at that,” she panted, pressing a kiss to his mouth, unphased by the slick that coated the lower half of his face. 

Nikolai got to his feet, letting his teeth graze against her bottom lip before he straightened up fully, separating reluctantly so he could kick off his boots and finally rid himself of the rest of his clothes. “I’m good at lots of things,” he promised. 

Helena moved toward the head of the mattress, watching him, face flushed pink high on her cheekbones and hair a mess already. Her dark eyes dipped down his chest, thighs pressing together when he finally freed his cock. He wanted to imprint the image of her looking at him like that on the back of his eyelids, so he could see it every time he blinked for the rest of his life. Her dark eyes were hot and hungry, for him. That morning, this was a distant, far off fantasy that lingered in the back of his mind, and now she was here, laying naked before him, every inch of her lean, muscular, scarred up body on display, and she wanted him. 

“Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to come over here and show me what else you’re good at?” she asked. 

“I am just appreciating the view,” he laughed, climbing onto the bed beside her. “It’s one I’d very much like to remember.”

“Flatterer,” she accused, curling into his arms for another kiss. 

He hummed against her mouth, agreeing, pulling her on top of him, legs on either side of his waist. He was glad she was as eager to lock lips as he was— He could never get tired of the spit-slicked slide of her mouth against his, the swipe of her tongue against his own, like she was as desperate to devour him as he was her. He reached around her hips to take himself in hand, precum easing the glide of his first few rough, desperate strokes. 

“Koyla,” she whined against his mouth, angling her hips back. 

“You want me?” he asked, tapping the head of his cock against her core, grinning when she inched backward, chasing it when he pulled back again. 

“Yes,” she panted. “Please.”

Who was he to deny her? He rubbed himself against her dripping folds again, and she pitched herself backward, taking him to the hilt in one smooth movement. He groaned, fighting off the urge to come just like that, at the first molten clench of her cunt around him, fingers digging into her hips to hold her still while he adjusted. 

Lena fought his grip, grinding her clit down against him, desperate for friction and movement. Nikolai lost the battle shamefully quick, an orgasm pulsing through him before he could do more than pant out her name, holding her down against him as he came inside her, eyes screwed tight. 

He pulled in a shuddering breath, wincing. “Shit. Sorry.”

Lena just laughed, not an ounce of judgment or disappointment in the sound. “You need a minute?” she asked, pushing back up onto her knees, their hips still pressed flush together. Her cunt pulsed around him, and, blessedly, his cock responded with enthusiasm, staying hard. She rocked back and forth, hands braced against his chest as she fucked herself slowly on him, drawing each movement out excruciatingly slow, a teasing smile on her lips. She squeezed around him again, and he could help but groan, rutting up into her reflexively. 

“No. No, I will keep going. Sorry.” He pulled her down against his chest and rolled them so that he was on top. Coming too early once was bad enough, he couldn’t risk it happening a second time. He folded her legs up and thrust into her slow, making sure that she felt every inch of him drag across that spongy, sensitive spot that he had found with his fingers earlier. 

Lena hooked her legs around his waist, pressing her palms against the headboard to give herself some leverage to meet his movements, encouraging him to pick up his pace. He followed her cue, pistoning into her soaked pussy harder and faster, his balls slapping against her ass, coupling with the wet sound of his cock moving in and out of her and the little whimpers that left her lips with every thrust. He dropped down to his forearms, feeling tension building inside him again, trying to keep his reaction in check, and the change in angle made her cry out. She let go of the headboard and clung to his shoulders instead, burying her face against his neck. 

“Kolya,” she gasped into his ear. “I’m close.”

He knew that the best thing he could do was keep to the same rhythm, so he continued the relentless pace, shifting his wieght to one arm so he could reach between them, rubbing a tight circle around her clit. He legs squeezed tight around him, her cunt fluttering around his cock. She bit down on his shoulder, groaning against his skin, nails digging into his back.  His own release came quickly, the tension snapping as he spilled inside her for the second time. He rutted against her until her cunt relented, loosening around him. 

“Fuck,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “You’re so beautiful. Next time I need to see your face, yes?”

That teasing, fox-like grin returned. “Next time?”

“Give me, five, ten minutes,” he panted. “I’m good for it.” 

She laughed, pushing him over onto the bed and curling into him, her head on his shoulder, her legs tangled up with his. She made a soft, contented noise, running her fingers through the sweaty curls of hair on his chest, her expression turning dazed and thoughtful as she relaxed in his arms. He smoothed her hair back from her face, kissing the top of her head affectionately. 

"You flown a helo yet?” she asked. “I could take you up tomorrow, if you want. There’s one on the ship." The change of subject was abrupt, but he knew her well enough to recognize her tactics when she got too close to an emotion. 

"I would like that.” 

“Good. Me too.”

Nikolai sighed, tilting Lena’s chin up for another proper kiss. He would spend every moment he could by her side, for as long as she would let him, in the air or on solid ground. “Will you be in town again soon?” he asked hopefully. 

“I haven’t even left yet,” she said, laughing. 

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

She bit her lip, cheeks turning pinker, her eyes filled with something shining and hopeful and sweet, something that settled under his ribs, curling up in his chest and purring like a contented cat. “I wish I didn’t have to.”

“Next time, stay longer.” 

“I will,” she promised. “And yes, soon.”

He didn��t expect more than that. Couldn’t, knowing her. But it was enough. 

Maybe Copenhagen wasn’t so bad after all. 

#call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #x OC #Nikolai x OC #Nikolai mw #here be smut #MDNI #Sparrowverse #I can't look at this anymore or I will go insane #Please let me know if you need more content warnings at the beginning #This is the first actual sex scene I've posted and I hope it's appropriately sexy

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: An Unexpected Pair

COD men x Reader

Trials & Triumphs

Summary: You've been selected to lead a ragtag group of operatives through a covert long-op. Determined to take down NATO's latest focus: a prominent underground sex-trafficking ring, you're put to the test when you're unexpectedly saddled with a strike team you've only heard of through rumors: TaskForce 141.

Words: 4.2k

Warnings: Alcohol, Peer Pressure, Tension, Cursing

A/N: So... this is sort of a self-indulgence, and idk how far I'm gonna go with this, so I left it up to fate. It could wind up a simon-ghost-riley x reader or könig x reader... maybe even keegan x reader. Who knows.

Sent in by NATO, you find yourself in command of a ragtag team made up of specialists from a handful of different countries. It didn't take long to figure out that Laswell had apparently heard your request all those months ago to be considered for a project in this territory. Sure, some of the recruits for this mission were familiar, though most are not.

Handshakes all around, you take in the people you'll be spending the next few months--or possibly--years with. It doesn't take long for Laswell to brief you all on the current circumstances and protocol for this project. While you'll all have the next few hours to pack and get ready to ship out, what comes next is unexpected.

"Captain, this is TaskForce One-Four-One. They'll be your Strike team upon identification, extraction, and recovery. You'll be in close contact throughout this mission," Laswell explains with an outstretched hand presented toward the door. Everyone's eyes on the additions to your team, you're not too surprised when you spot who walks into the briefing room.

What followed devolved into more or less what you'd describe as an argument. It was unclear whether this TaskForce 141 was reporting to you, or you, to them. Laswell simply dismissed both parties' worries and insisted you figure it out on your own.

Despite the confusion, you're determined to follow through with your praised routine for missions. On the way out of the briefing room, you managed to snag their Captain's number to make a group chat for the time being. Everything in order, you text the plans for this evening. Everyone is to pack their belongings in order to ship out tomorrow morning at 04:00 hours. Once they're done with that, they can meet up at Rockie's, one of the bars just a few minutes walk off base for an icebreaker.

There was the debate of dressing up. Revealing your features, having fun with some of the buddies on your squadron you'd done dozens of missions with, yet, this isn't that. It's not a celebration or a victory; not a job well done, this is a meeting... an introduction. Therefore, bare face is out of the question. If anything, it's best to stay on guard until you get to know the outliers on this project.

Nevertheless, that doesn't mean you can't have a good time with your friends while still getting to know the others! Eyes scanning over the warmly lit bar, you revel in the mid-week relative quiet. In all honesty, it's not quiet, but considering how rowdy it can get on the weekends or after a homecoming, it sure can be described that way. There's a game of pool going on in the back corner, and a game on the televisions on either side of the bar. Though you're more intrigued by the small crowd of people flitting about. Elbow keeping you propped up against the dark wooden bar table, you watch one of the bartenders mill about, hopefully, getting your drinks.

"Was not expecting to see you here, Cap," Keegan voices his surprise. He'd been holding it in the entire meeting, eager to congratulate you on what can only be considered a promotion of sorts. Being put in charge of a covert long-op is something usually only experienced vets get put on. While you're not a newbie by any means, he hadn't anticipated seeing you on the mission, let alone in charge of it. "Can't wait to see how you go about this." With a pat to your back, the exposed rounds Keegan's cheeks rise. You can tell he's smiling.

Returning from the bathroom, McKay and Wilson laugh alongside one another. A small smile graces your lips; you're not sure where you'd be if you hadn't been fortunate in meeting and getting to know them. Junior Lieutenant Amala McKay you'd been through basic with, having both enlisted at the same time. While you hadn't known each other prior, it was safe to say that you'd both come from fairly different worlds and mindsets... yet, opposites attract, right? Corporal Olivia Wilson you'd met upon resettlement after graduation, being stationed at the same base and in the same sector. She was a tough nut, that's for sure. Though through your hard work she'd easily come around and determined you were a strong enough character to befriend.

"Keegan, this is-" raising a hand toward the approaching women, you offer what you can of a smile from behind your balaclava.

"Private McKay," Keegan greets. With an extended hand, McKay easily meets it with her own, tugging him into a shoulder bump of sorts. That sort of stereotypical 'bro' greeting you've gotten accustomed to in the military.

"You'll be pleased to know it's Junior Lieutenant now, Sergeant!" She informs him, a smile instantly lifting her already bright demeanor, the woman practically beaming with a sense of pride.

"Corporal Wilson," the slightly shorter blonde woman greets. Her typical stoicism replaces the jovial attitude she'd had upon exiting the bathroom.

"Sergeant Keegan Russ," he responds with a nod and firm handshake.

"Oh great," Wilson sighs, ducking her head. Following her reaction, the group spots who's just walked into the bar. You may not know him personally, but you've seen him around and have heard a thing or two about Commander Phillip Graves. Alongside him walk in the other assigned specialists Laswell and NATO had enlisted at the behest of KorTac, a separate private military contractor from yours.

McKay nudges Wilson with her elbow, eliciting a groan from Wilson as she drags a hand down her face. "You know them?" Keegan questions, an eyebrow raising from what you can spot beneath his balaclava.

"Me? No... but it seems Wilson does," you answer, teasing your friend. Wilson shakes her head, blonde hair obscuring her features as she turns on her heels and announces that she needs a drink, departing in favor of the bar.

"Wonder what that's about," Keegan voices his thoughts aloud, curious eyes following Wilson's retreating figure. While your gaze turns in suit, it's only a few seconds before you're drawn back to your previous line of sight with a call of your rank.

"Captain, right?" It's him: Phillip Graves. Taking in the approaching figures, you nod, extending a hand out toward the man. "This your team?" With a reciprocated shake, the Commander grips your hand tighter than needed, an abrupt shake leaving your brows tensing just subtly beneath your balaclava.

"Once upon a time, maybe," you respond. The playfulness in your tone may go over the Commander's radar, however Keegan releases a quiet chuckle to himself. "Meet Sergeant-"

"Keegan Russ," announcing his own namesake, he only offers a nod in the Commander's direction before turning to the two others beside him.

"That there's Junior Lieutenant-" you extend an arm in presentation.

"McKay," Amala finishes, extending a firm shake to each of the men before her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, though I'm gonna go check on Wilson," she excuses herself. With that announcement, your eyes flit over to the blonde hunched over the bar haphazardly sat on a stool.

"I'll be back," Graves states, heading off in the direction of the bar--which leaves you worried for half a second--till he swerves under the signs leading to the restrooms.

"Hello." The man that'd been next to Graves looks like a dwarf in comparison to the Giant beside him, however the fact that he still looms over you in the way most of your associates do says something. "I am Horangi," he introduces himself, extending a hand. Adorned by a plain black face mask and dark sunglasses, they both leave room for mystery. He has an accent, and while you know where he comes from based off the files you'd obtained in advance of your meeting this afternoon, his voice wouldn't be a signifier otherwise.

"Nice to meet you, Horangi," you respond, introducing your own last name and ranking of Captain. With a gentle grip and firm shake, you offer him a smile from behind your balaclava. As soon as he proceeds to introduce himself to Keegan, you move onto the only one left: the Giant.

"Hallo Captain," the Giant greets, "I am König. It is nice to meet you." Though he doesn't offer a hand, you do. Watching the man's eyes shift behind his mask at the movement, he has to crane his neck downward in order to see you properly. Simultaneously, you also have to crane your neck upward to meet his gaze. It's awkward, but the man accepts your offer and brings his gloved hand up to gently shake your much smaller hand before quickly releasing it.

The files aren't needed to know by his accent that this is the Colonel KorTac sent. The insertion specialist, if you remember correctly. While you hadn't had a great lengthy time to look over everyone's files, you'd at least gotten a vague general sense of their positions and rankings. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Konig," you respond. "Everyone's just getting here, so feel free to get a drink, look around. I don't know how familiar you two are with this base." König nods in response to your words, a quiet 'Danke' passing between you before he follows his partner's lead and introduces himself to Keegan as well.

Just in time, the server from earlier drops off the drinks you'd ordered. Keegan grabs a beer, while you partake in the cider you'd gotten yourself, the few shots on the tray up for grabs since you'd wanted to provide ground for a casual vibe. The server asks if the two new additions to your group would like to order anything. Both men seem interested but ask questions that leave the server amused and offering for them to follow him to the bar to give them samples and an actual menu.

Deciding to take a seat at the barstool on one side of the table, you're joined by Keegan, a friendly but comfortable silence lingering between you two. Some of the hot oldies play, garnering a few bouts of singing along inbetween sips of cider. It's only once she's gotten her drink that McKay rejoins the table with a glass of beer. She's always been one for tradition, you'd come to learn.

"Nice of 'em to finally show up," Keegan comments under his breath before downing the last of his bottle. He places it on the tabletop before standing, tacitly offering his seat up to McKay before nodding towards the bar. You get his gist and nod in response; he's going to get another drink.

"Want a shot?" You offer to your partner, eyes finally taking the time to take in who Keegan was referring to. Swiveling on your stool, you face diagonally to the entrance. Under the warm lights of the bar walk in a group of four men, one of them unintentionally signifying their identity in the form of a skull mask.

"Why the hell not? If we're off to Al-Mazrah tomorrow then I'll need it, huh?" She laughs, nudging your bicep with her elbow. An amused smirk sets upon your lips beneath the balaclava, though your eyes don't leave the group lingering by the door. It only takes your lackluster response to earn the addition of Amala's attention. "You seem apprehensive," she comments, following suit as you both take in their appearance. "Can't blame you though. Did you even know they were on call for this?"

The slight clench of your jaw gives her the answer you really hadn't wanted to provide. You wish she hadn't asked, but there's no doubt the information would come out sooner or later anyway. "No... but there's no reason we can't make it work. Right?" You reassure. Though if you're honest, you don't know if it's directed more toward her or yourself. Motion a second nature by now, you pull down your balaclava just enough to down the rest of your cider before pushing the bottle into the middle of the table alongside the shots. Hands on the polished table, you push yourself off the stool to stand. "Speaking of-" Interrupted, all eyes in the bar jump to the loud and boisterous voice by the front doors.

"'EYA GRAVES, LONG TIME 'N NO SEE!" A loud and booming accented voice signals you in on its owner. Through all the files you'd skimmed, there was only one person from this place, and while you usually have a harder time pinning few similar accents, this one is more pronounced in this moment. John MacTavish, the only Scottish member of Taskforce 141.

Watching the loud soldier head toward the bar, the rest of them walk over to a table just a few feet away, another bar table set in the distance between. The darker-skinned man takes off his hat and jacket, placing the items on a barstool before turning to a mustached man who shreds his own jacket. While they converse, it becomes clear how they're setting up camp at their own table, not bothering to even introduce themselves first unlike the people who were relatively on time according to your instruction.

"Should we-?"

"I'll go over, try to get them to join," you announce. Hand coming up to halt Amala from getting up, you send her a knowing look before leaving her with a quick playful wave. While it should be easy to squeeze into their conversation and welcome them to your team, you find yourself daunted. Whether it's the infamous skull mask everyone has heard rumors of, and his unflinching cold stare, or the fact that they're all a part of one of the special black ops taskforces you'd only heard were solely fiction made up to scare newer recruits until today. Nevertheless, a group of tall men in uniforms, bigger, and presumably stronger than you isn't anything new. Though for whatever reason, you can't help but stumble in place as a shiver runs through your body.

"Ay, it's the Cap'in, innit?" Eyes shifting over and up to the man speaking, you hadn't expected such a gruff and deep voice from him.

"Indeed, it is. Pleasure to meet you..." The amused, partially giddy smile begins to crack at the seams of your stoicism. No matter how old you get, there's no denying the universe girlhood that's currently peeking through: your fondness for men with accents.

"Cap'in Price," he announces, a hand extending outward across the man beside him. "Good to meet ya." With a firm shake, you give him a nod of your head in response. It's interesting to meet someone of the same ranking, though from another country, not to mention a different unit altogether. You're curious to hear about his profession and see how he handles situations. While their Captain may be a decade or two your senior, you can admire the nice beard he has going on.

"You've got head on this op, isn't that right?" Eyes shifting over and up at the man right beside you, he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Name's Kyle, but you can call me Gaz," he informs you, an easygoing smile on his lips. You can admit to yourself that he's attractive, his big nose suiting the features of his face, thick eyebrows, plump lips, curious dark brown eyes. Before you can finish introducing yourself to Gaz, the forming smile that'd been tugging at your lips comes to a halt.

"An' you've got us out here, hours before departure. For what?" The smile dies. Everyone's attention shoots over to him: Ghost. You'd heard of him, sure. Even a continent away the rumors spread; he didn't have a name, only a motive: kill or be killed.

Searching his eyes, it only takes a fraction of a second to see the questioning, the frustration, the anger. You'd been known as a good people reader, and while masks might make things a bit more difficult, the dim lighting of the bar only exacerbates the shadows surrounding his face. A cocky smirk instinctively displays itself on your lips beneath the mask. With a shake of your head and an amused breath huffing out your nose, you finally meet his eyes again. "To get to know one another. There's no point in going out there if you can't even begin to try and see how your other operatives think."

"An' you think drinkin' and makin' idle chitchat is gonna fix that?" He questions. Eyebrows raising beneath your balaclava you don't stand down or look away this time. You're not willing to give him the sort of submission he might expect. While your ranking does stand higher than his, you also know that when it comes to the military, there's no shortage of misogynistic men. It's too soon to judge, and he's certainly made no clear indication of that mindset, but his questioning raises flags on your end that might be worth looking out for.

"No, but it's a start," you retort. Crossing your arms over your chest you turn from facing him head-on to open yourself back toward the other men. "When you'd get off your last deployment?" You inquire. Either Ghost's simply getting ahead of the game and is putting himself in the mindset he may need for whatever this mission calls for, or something tells you he might still be holding onto whatever baggage came with the last.

""Bout three weeks ago, innit?" Gaz comments, head swiveling as he double-checks with the Captain who nods in confirmation. Though your sightline is more directed toward Ghost, you don't miss the way Gaz attempts to subtly nod over toward the bar. "Why?" The seemingly talkative one of the bunch says, attention back on you.

"Just curious," you answer. Surely that question isn't a common one, but you were genuinely interested. "And regardless, I know Laswell said we need to hash this out, but for the moment, I appreciate you coming. I think it's important to get to know everyone we'll be working with the next few months." While you take your time with your words, you don't let it go over their heads that their participation is expected from you. Business out of the way, you gently slap on Gaz's back--he was closest--and smile. "Now why don't you go get a drink!"

The men to your right chuckle, the Captain and Gaz instantly brought out of whatever tension was between you and Ghost and into much higher spirits. "Can't say no to that!" Gaz comments, starting to walk away and toward the bar. The Captain turns to leave before slinging an arm around your shoulder and guiding you away from their table.

"Don't you mind him. He's... a tough nut, yeah? He'll come around, eventually. Good soldier- does what he needs to. I can assure you I don't think we'll have any trouble, just... let him come around, alright?" Captain Price speaks quietly, though you wouldn't exactly call it a whisper. Eyes roaming over his shoulder to spot Ghost in the same position you'd all left him, you can't help but wonder what the hell his problem is. The Captain comes to a stop, his eyes searching your face as you haven't responded and he's waiting.

"Sounds like a plan," you concede, nodding for good measure. The Captain offers a smile before leaving you with a friendly slap on the back. With a lick of your lips beneath the fabric, you try and think of what to do next. Vision drifting around the room in search of someone, it isn't long before you find them. Walking back to your table, you see McKay slowly acquiring a frothy foamed mustache from her beer.

“Do you know who that this?” Your comrade, McKay, questions, baffled by your audacity to command the 141 and their Lieutenant around. She shifts between staring at him over her shoulder and looking away.

“Only by rumor,” you answer. Everything you’d heard up until now had all been gossip. Stories, tales that were woven by people who’d simply heard something from someone, and the list went on. All of it could be chalked up to nothing. You don’t know him, you haven’t heard of his work and the exact details through any trustworthy sources so all in all, you can’t bring yourself to care about the rumors.

"Well, he seems like trouble. Don't know he's going to follow orders willingly... might even go rogue," McKay comments between sips of her beer. Her brown eyes shift over to meet your gaze, unsurprised that it's still stuck on him. "Wouldn't let it get to you though." Her attempt at relieving you only spurs on the challenge in your mind. Amala's eyes narrow as she has a guess at what you're thinking, or rather, planning.

Being close to the woman, you know she'll catch on. With a quick flash of a smile in her direction, gaze torn from the mysterious figure, you steer her off your scent. "Maybe I'll offer them the shots? At least try to get on their good side," you offer.

"Sounds like a plan," she muses, teasingly quoting a pleasantry you'd often make. With a raise of her stein, she wishes you the best of luck with a pat on the back.

Carrying the tray over, your eyes drift over to the folks at the bar. It seems that the KorTac folks have finally settled on drinks, while Graves and Wilson talk, clearly making some type of progress. For the better, you can only hope. Keegan's gaze catches yours upon surveying the premises; with smiles exchanged, he too, offers a raise of his beer. It's then that Gaz introduces himself, the Captain quickly following suit. Entirely all too aware of the piercing gaze following your figure from the Taskforce's table, irregardless of your attention. You won't give him the satisfaction. Nearing the table, you can feel your heart racing in your chest, nerves climbing up your spine, latching onto whatever crevices they can reach.

With careful hands you set the tray on their table, gently pushing aside the condiment carrier, making sure nothing falls. Hand encircling the glass, you pull down your balaclava just enough to expose your lips before sipping at your second cider. "What's this?" He finally speaks. "Tequila shots?" The Ghost asks, taking a step closer toward the table.

"A peace offering. You might think it's stupid, but in getting to know my team, I usually get them the food and drinks--on me--when it's an activity I deem necessary. So, by all means--"

"An' who's this lovely bird? You not gonna introduce me, Ghost?" Interrupted, you turn to meet the sound of people approaching. The quiet groan that slips past Ghost's reserve doesn't go unnoticed by you, but you play none the wiser.

Gaz shoves his hip into the curiosity you'd read was John 'Soap' MacTavish, the codename, you couldn't possibly surmise a reasoning to. "Bloody hell," he curses, "That's the Captain, idiot!" With either hand around his teammate's shoulders, the bump from Gaz sends him leaning into their own Captain, John. It only now crosses your mind that with two Johns on their team the need for codenames must be more a necessity than simply security.

"Please excuse him, he might have..." the Captain's words trail off as he looks over Soap's shoulder at Gaz. "What was it you said? He went pre-gone? Decided to do a premie?"

Gaz slides Soap's arm off his shoulder before crumbling in half, hands on his knees as he laughs. "Pre-game! He decided to Pre-game, Price! Hell," the man snorts every once in a while as he laughs his ass off.

"Mm," you hum. "He pre-gamed, I see. No worries-" you begin to excuse the soldier, even if amusement rumbles in your chest, threatening to come out in an equal fit of laughter.

"Captain what?" Soap asks, his other arm slinking off their Captain's shoulder only for the man to push Soap toward one of the stools.

"Fuckin' idiot," Ghost curses more to himself than anyone.

"Oh, you're talkin' codenames already?" Graves rounds the table to stand between Soap and Ghost, a beer bottle settled in his grip.

"Anyway, since it seems everyone's coming over I got a round of shots for you all. Please feel free," you announce. While sliding the respective shots on the tray in the direction of the people surrounding the table, you purposefully lift Ghost's shot and place it before him. If anyone needs to relax, it's clearly this man.

"Watch out!" You hear Keegan's voice before you feel his gloved hand on your waist, tugging you out of the way. Wilson and McKay slide the nearest table together, making the table big enough for all of you. "Thought we'd make it big enough for everyone to sit together," he informs you.

"Thanks, Keeg," you respond. A smile unconsciously tugs across your lips as you hadn't realized anyone had cared enough to notice and join your efforts to try and get everyone together.

With the rejoining of König and Horangi at the end of the table, you're all together. "Any ideas for a team name?" McKay questions, looking around the big table.

This question elicits lots of laughs and verbalized thoughts, which in turn manage to garner everyone's opinions. All in all, you'd say that things may have start off rocky, but have finally turned into a proper icebreaker. While everyone might have differing opinions and feelings about the people on their team, you can at least say that now you're beginning to get to know the people you'll be working with. One can hope it'll lead to friendship and smooth sailing when it comes to group dynamics, but you suppose only time will tell that story.

~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

#cod men x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #my writing #cod reader insert #könig x reader #keegan russ x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #phillip graves #OCs #kate laswell #kim horangi #kim horangi hong jin #keegan p russ #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #soap #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #my series #taskforce141 x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #trials & triumphs #trials & triumphs series #t&t #t&t series

[paganminiskirt]

I love reading your analyzing of Coyle. I wondered if you had any thoughts on his sexuality? (I mean I have a damn spread sheet myself, but you're so much better at words and really great at psychoanalyzing lol). I've described him as being "the straightest gay man I've ever seen" to a few people now and eventually the "get" it.

(CW: discussions of canon typical sexual and racial violence, slavery, internalized homophobia, domestic violence and femicide. One of the linked videos also discusses fascism using disturbing transphobic rhetoric as an example.)

Thank you for your kind words, it’s really nice to know my ramblings are resonating with someone! Discussion should be allowed to emerge naturally, but I think much of the debate that arose from the revelation of Coyle’s character was removed from the context of the oppressed groups being commented on by the text. I say that mainly in reference to people of color, since the KKK represents a cultural trauma which is inextricably attached to blackness, but the statement applies to queer people as well. That very Klan was almost extinguished in the 1870s until it was revitalized half a century later by a film, of all things: media is obviously important. There’s much more that can be, and to an extent needs to be, said about this story beyond rehashing “it is/is not okay to hornypost about this” ad nauseam.

So let’s get this out of the way: I think Coyle was deliberately being written as queer. The ethics of incorporating LGBT characters in a setting so obsessed with the grotesque are questionable (you can read more perspectives on that here and here,) but I think there was intention behind the decision to depict him this way, whether it's "good representation" or not.

One of his defining traits is that he habitually deploys lewd, effeminate language to intimidate and dehumanize his victims: “alluring piglet,” “honey,” “beautiful/sexy b*tch,” “darling,” “sweet, ripe young things" and the like. You could argue that is solely a degradation tactic rather than a direct indicator of his sexual preference, and he does seem to do it primarily to scare you. But a big part of the horror in Kill the Snitch is that Coyle is very unembarrassed about how much pleasure he gets out of subjecting you to that degradation. (“You lick my boot, maybe I let you up.”) The innuendo he taunts the Reagents with is unaffected by their gender presentation, and The Snitch is a fixed character presented as a cis man who Coyle treats with just as much aggressive leeriness. From there, it's difficult to interpret him as straight. 

And since Coyle is one of the main villains of the game, I think I would be remiss if I argued that his bi/pansexuality is a thematically insignificant byproduct of his broader characterization as a sadist. That conclusion certainly presents itself: even if his queerness is loudly implied, it isn’t commented on directly by the text the way other aspects of his character are, like racism and uxoricide. The closest we get to a clear, unmistakable identification of his sexuality comes in the form of his aforementioned attitude towards The Snitch. 

While the Reagents are interchangeable grunts, The Oogie Boogie Man Snitch is Coyle's own prisoner, and as such we witness him compound the usual routine of sexualized cruelty with repeated assertions of possession, calling him things like “toy” “mine” and “property” to emphasize a sense of ownership. He comes completely undone when the Reagents electrocute him to death, exploding into thwarted, miserable rage like a kid watching their sandcastle get kicked to shit (“No! FUCKING NO! He was mine!”) and throwing out all of his beliefs at once as this jumbled, fascistic mess; “anarchist pinko fucks” this and “country’s going to shit” that.

Perhaps the most telling line about their dynamic is this one: “Jesus Christ you look like my second wife, you know that? Spittin' image. Woman got me 'bout as hot as Missouri asphalt.” The only time we see how Coyle interacts with people on an even playing field is in the files, when it’s mentioned that he killed two of his fellow soldiers when serving in the army & brutalized a murkoff agent interviewing him. The social dominance he has over people like The Snitch and his wives seems to be the only way he’s capable of conducting interpersonal relationships on a vaguely emotional level. Otherization, fuckability, and the need for corrective shame/subordination are all intertwined in Coyle's head, muddling together to form his notion of natural hierarchy: one which is incoherent, self-serving, and more about appearances than anything else. (“I know what you did. I just need to hear you say it.”)

And the importance placed on appearances isn’t just something that Leland happens to believe. In the era when this game takes place, the electric chair was at peak popularity as a form of “humane” capital punishment: in reality, it was a callous technological repackaging of the methods of execution which came before it, namely the (distinctly racialized) hanging/lynching. These methods were designed to reinforce social hierarchy by staging voyeuristic displays of dehumanization, and were levied with particular barbarism against people of color. There’s a catalog of horror stories I could insert here about white supremacy and the electric chair, but that’s another post entirely. What I want to establish is that:

A. It's easy to interpret The Snitch’s execution (and the Reagent’s forced participation in it) as a symbolic enforcement of Murkoff’s construction of social dominance, akin to capital punishment or lynching/state sponsored terrorism. B. Men like Coyle were categorically responsible for orchestrating executions like the one in the game, and the fact that he gets so angry and addled about it even though he’s ostensibly a follower of their doctrine speaks to the nature of his ideology. 

Though a lot of real world topics get touched on by Coyle's dialogue, it certainly isn’t 100% down-to-earth social critique. Many of his lines invite you to laugh at him (“It's hurtful when you disrespect the badge. I have feelings, too”/”Ain't you slicker'n a can of mashed assholes”) and his crimes themselves are, at times, overblown and ridiculous. He's a caricature of institutional violence and injustice, not a straight faced example of it. No, the realistic part of Coyle’s storyline is how the power structures of 1950s America both protected him from consequences and deliberately encouraged him to degenerate. I’ve alluded to this before: it’s one of my favorite things about Trials.

He was sent to military school because of his violent tendencies and joined the marines to avoid investigation after killing his first wife, but once he had the Police Department to shield him his behavior escalated in severity so much so that it attracted the attention of an even worse organization. The process was Military School → Ku Klux Klan → Marines → Police Department → Murkoff. This facet of the story was always there, but the newly released comic really hammers in the point, that Coyle - infantile, nonsensical, vulgarly abusive and utterly unworthy of authority - was never a barely tolerated outlier or a well kept secret within the systems he budded up from. The files directly attach his klan involvement to police work even as he's described as a “good cop:” because there were no good cops in Blackwell, because good cops aren’t real. US Law Enforcement can be traced back to early southern slave patrols, they've had a handshake agreement with the Klan for decades, and you need look no further than the recent Minneapolis Police Department exposé to see how they operate in the modern world - and this game is set sixty years before 2023. Horrifying, yeah?

Understanding cops themselves to be fundamentally immoral and unjust, by the time we meet him in the game, Coyle isn’t even a competent cop in terms of his willingness to enact unjust aims. Yes he is brutal, yes he is racist, yes he clings to the childish, cowardly belief in immutable superiority found in actual modern fascists - but the ouroboros of psychosexual issues driving him to behave the way he does take precedence over his purported devotion to any belief system, to such a degree that he isn’t even acting in explicit defense of an institution anymore. That job, to defend the current institution, is what the Reagents are being trained for: the same ones he deems subhuman and, most tellingly, “perverted.”

One thing that makes Coyle’s whole presence in Kill The Snitch  so surreal and disorienting is how manufactured and aimless his job as The Snitch’s defender really is. The man play acts an interrogation of someone who will never see trial, referencing vice squads, courts and elections that are nowhere to be found in the Sinyala facility - even though a different line of his mentions how they “don’t favor courts in these parts.” So, he’s directly contradicting himself. When the Snitch dies, he goes “NO! NO! I'll never... God DAMNIT,” not even finishing his own sentence about what it is he apparently needed The Snitch for.

The man obviously thinks otherwise, but he’s a make-believe cop, a test dummy for trainees to be pitted against ala shencomix’s professional hater. Though nowhere near as disenfranchised, Coyle is a puppet in Murkoff’s trials as much as the Reagents are, all his nasty, grandiose rhetoric ultimately amounting to hot air: and unlike the Reagents, this does not end with him being reborn. He lacks the overarching purpose of eventual service to a greater cause that they have.

And therein lies the self-destroying prophecy inherent to his understanding of reality. You can argue that Coyle is aware (subconsciously or otherwise) that there exists the potential for him to be otherized, and by extension subordinated, for an immutable part of himself which is directly attached to his sexuality and masculinity. I’d be surprised if he wasn't, considering how loudly the prejudices of the culture he arose from are relayed to the audience. The fear that comes from that knowledge gives birth to an obsession with categorism, shame, and “justice:” which he rationalizes as an immutable aspect of reality by connecting it with the natural phenomenon of lightning. (“I used to stand in a storm and watch the lightning strike the plains and I would think, "well there you go." That's justice. Sometimes the finger of God reaches down and touches you. But you never know which finger it is you're gonna get.”)

This leads to violence which he is constantly rewarded for: and because it’s the only viable outlet he has for exercising those very issues which he was trying to avoid confronting in the first place… he overindulges. Loses all interest in presenting the rhetoric coherently, in favor of chasing the immediate release that cruelty provides with ever-increasing vigor. (Funny how he calls the Reagents “dope addicted” too. Mr. Sony VPL strikes again!)

But in the end, Coyle is worthless. He’s a tool, designed to be overcome. It's a similarly symbolic, utilitarian role to that of The Snitch, which potentially feeds into his perverse sense of protectiveness over him, but the people who are coming out the other end of this with a job to do in the real world are the Reagents. People he looks down on, people he terrorizes, people he’s so desperate to bend to his will. He’s like... white chauvinism revealed as senseless, small and disgusting, condemned to chase its own tail & buckle under its own weight no matter how hard it shakes it's fist at the sky. 

And in a series so fixated on delusion and the disintegration of the self, the nugget of reality within that was thrilling to see on screen. 10/10, would cringe at again.

#theartof-p #leland coyle #officer coyle #outlast trials #murkoff corporation #I’m feeling a need to include a “the north is awful too” caveat #but I recently found out some relatives had a cross burned on their lawn. #in the urban North. in the 80s. #so it’s probably just my own biases speaking lmao #i’m p sure it doesn’t sound like I’m singling out the rural south here but lmk if you think otherwise #lmk whatever you have to say #anyways. Long live Leland Coyle’s hideous deplorable ass!!!

[i-identify-guns-in-posts]

hey dude can you actually explain like. gun basics(of like identification and like idk 'ranking' or something?)? I don't know jack shit but guns are p cool and I'd like to learn what better than on this wonderful tumblr page. if you can't thats fine I love you bro

Well the very basics of identifying a gun is of course what kind of gun it is. Is it a handgun or a shoulder weapon, there you can keep kind of subdividing, pistol or revolver, smg, assault rifle, carbine, pump action, lever action or bolt action, etc. once you got a good idea of what kind of gun it is, you look for specific identifying marks. like the shape of the handguard, the magazine, the pistol grip or lack thereof, the stock, and, most importantly, writings on the gun, a brand name a model name. And if it something you already know, congrats ! just check and make sure you're right.

If not, then try to find info on the setting. What year it is, what country, what character, how is it used, and it will narrow the list of weapons it will fit. Then using those info, you research.

If the picture you're seeing is from a movie, tv show or video game and that you know the exact piece of media it is, check the imfdb page, chances are it's been identified already. If not, well why not create the page for that movie?

If all of these fail, what i do is i go look for very wide listings of the type of gun i'm looking for. Like online gun stores, some imfdb pages, or even just. google image. You'd be surprised how many times you google something vague only to find one obscure website that talks about precisely the gun you're looking for, and then there we go, you got it.

If i got a specific manufacturer name, their website is often a good place to look for, if the weapon is a modern civilian model of course.

[bk-179]

What is KOSA? (And how could it kill kids?) [an educational comic by Bkay-179]

text will be posted below. Image ID is EXTREMELY appreciated- it will help more people learn about KOSA.

Hello! This is Bkay speaking. Today, I would like to explain the KOSA bill, a re-proposed, updated American bill from 2022 that will be voted on in the senate on February 26, 2024.

In this comic, I will explain the ramifications of this bill on the internet, both in the United States and internationally, if it were to eventually become law.

This bill is dangerous. Essentially, it is a bill proposing that websites and social media platforms censor content “unsafe for kids”, including sex education, LGBTQIA+ resources, information pertaining to gender affirming care, domestic violence and abuse aid, and much more.

In addition, it will pressure websites and social media platforms to collect extremely private information to both confirm the age of its users and to enforce parental consent guidelines for account creation.

Let’s start simple: What is KOSA?

KOSA is an American bill that aims to protect minors on the internet against content deemed harmful. It advocates for the identification of minors on a platform, especially social medias like TikTok and Tumblr, and the subsequent removal of “design features” deemed to “…encourage or increase the frequency, time spent, or activity of minors on the covered platform, or activity of minors on the covered platform” (Don’t Fall for the Latest Changes, 1)

So, it sounds like a bill that protects minors online, something we’ve needed for a while now. Sounds great, right?

Wrong.

KOSA is a censorship bill. The true purpose of the bill is to censor websites, platforms, and even games that the State Attorney Generals of each state do not like, especially ones that are used to spread information about gender, sexuality, sex education, and much, much more.

The bill will pressure companies and websites alike to verify the ages AND identites of their users, effectively killing anonymity and privacy for everyone, NOT just those in America.

The bill is intentionally vague, and uses this vagueness to place liability on platforms in the the event that minors are exposed to anything the State Attorney General of any given state is opposed too (which, as stated before, is marginalized communities, health information, sex education, and more).

This pressure and liability will push companies and websites to collect sensitive information; information that will be used to identify not only age, but identity.

It will be impossible to connect, discuss government and police misconduct, and organize rallies and protests, among other items protected by the first amendment, safely. The internet will no longer be anonymous. Everyone in any country that wishes to use these services is in danger if they use these platforms; especially minors.

Most importantly, the children won’t be safe. Far from protecting minors, the effects listed previously will contribute to the death of queer, trans, neurodivergent, POC, and abused children everywhere, especially in America where the censorship will be most prominent.

Protecting minors on the internet is important. But KOSA is not only ineffective in doing so, but is not actually meant to protect kids. It is meant to keep children under strict control for political purposes, and either directly or indirectly, this bill will kill them.

However, there is still hope.

There are ways to voice your disapproval of this bill in a way that matters. If you are an American citizen living in the USA, no matter your age, you can contact your state representatives about this bill and make it clear that you do not support it. If you aren’t, there are still ways to support the cancellation of this bill. Spreading the word and educating people about the bill is especially helpful.

Below, sources will be linked to show  you ways to ACT, for both Americans and non-Americans.

We will not go down without a fight.

(Sources linked within the description of the original post in Comic Studio are as follows:

- Stop KOSA is a movement that will help people in America take action against the bill.

- from a reputable organization, detailing the dangers of KOSA.

- a petition anyone can sign. )

(Additional helpful links to international petitions that I posted in the comments are as follows:

I recommend searching for more ways to stop KOSA; everyone can help via petitions, but the most important way to kill support for this bill is educative anyone and everyone about its harmful effects.)

#KOSA #stop kosa #kosa 2024 #kosa bill #kosa act #kids online safety act #queer rights #lgbtq community #lgbtqia rights #trans rights #transgender rights #Mental health #KOSA kills kids #bad internet bills #internet censorship #censorship #black history #education #children’s rights #youth rights

[lilacsupernova]

Follow the (legal) money

The [trans] industry's game plan is clearly laid out in a very revealing strategy document published by the world's largest law firm, Denton, and the news conglomerate Thomson Reuters Foundation, with support from the Eu and LGBTQ organisation IGLYO (The International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer and Intersex (LGBTQI) Youth & Student Organisation). The document is entitled 'Only adults? Good practice in legal gender recognition' and begins by explaining that "there are certain techniques that emerge as being effective in progressing trans rights in 'good practice' countries."

They recommend linking the issue to human rights, as detractors will then experience "the political stigma of a human rights violation." References to the "right to health" in UN declarations should be interpreted to include gender reassignment procedures, the "right to respect for private and family life" to encompass a right to gender self-identification and the phrase "best interests of the child" should be interpreted to mean that the child has the right to decide about undergoing treatment. Changes in the law should now come across as being in the interests of pharmaceutical companies and clinics, but as young people's right to not have to "be ashamed of who they are." Thus, it is not a child's right to safe and evidence-based care but the right to receive gender reassignment without parental consent that is being advocated. Parents are considered an obstacle: "It is recognised that the requirement for parental consent or the consent of a legal guardian can be restrictive and problematic for minors." The report further counsels that the word 'surgery' is best avoided, as it can sound alarming. Instead, operations should be referred to as "the right to be yourself." The key to success is to tie campaigns to more popular reforms, such as the campaign for marriage equality, since they provide "a veil of protection, particularly in Ireland, where marriage equality was strongly supported, but gender identity remained a more difficult issue to win public support for." The most effective practice is to directly lobby young politicians, though public debate about the issues is best avoided.

– Kajsa Ekis Ekman (2023) On the Meaning of Sex: Thoughts on the New Definition of Woman, pp. 162-3.

#kajsa ekis ekman #on the meaning of sex #feminism #radical feminism #follow the money #trans #lilac posts

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Susan Kelley

Published: May 2, 2018

Colleges and universities across the country are struggling with the question of who decides what is acceptable speech on campus. When does a controversial topic become hate speech? When should it be allowed as free speech?

Two Cornell researchers say psychological science’s extensive study of bias offers an important lens through which to view these conflicts, as we strive to understand and reduce them.

There is no alternative to free speech, say co-authors Stephen Ceci and Wendy Williams in “Who Decides What Is Acceptable Speech on Campus? Why Restricting Free Speech Is Not the Answer.” Their analysis appeared May 2 in Perspectives in Psychological Science as the lead article in the issue.

“There is no alternative to free speech, because every controversial topic has a substantial group of people who view it as hate speech,” said Ceci, the Helen L. Carr Professor of Developmental Psychology. “If we define unacceptable speech in terms of topics students say should be banned because they make them feel marginalized or uncomfortable, then we remove all controversial topics from consideration.”

Added Williams, professor of human development: “Feeling discomfort and angst at hearing words is not a legal reason to shut down other people’s rights to say those things.”

Since the 1950s, psychological science has demonstrated that many types of bias can prevent opposing sides from accepting the validity of each other’s arguments, the authors say.

Selective perception makes opponents on an issue literally see things differently. In 1954, researchers showed a film of a 1951 football game – Princeton versus Dartmouth, well-known for its competitive, rough play – to two groups: one of Princeton fans and the other of Dartmouth boosters. Each team’s supporters saw the majority of flagrant violations as having been committed by opposing players.

For people with selective bias, “it’s not just that they interpret their perceptions differently; they actually see different things,” Ceci said.

In “myside” bias, people look for evidence that supports their opinions and ignore or downgrade evidence that contradicts them. “Blind-spot bias comes from deep identification with a cause. We believe we are especially enlightened, while our opponents’ affiliation with the opposite side leads them to be biased,” Ceci said. Similarly, naïve realism makes people feel their views are grounded in reality but their opponents’ are not.

These and many other biases explain why a sizable percentage of students favor banning nearly every controversial topic, the authors said.

For example, a Cato Institute survey of 3,000 Americans with university experience found:

40 percent would ban a speaker who says men on average are better than women at math;

51 percent would ban claims that all white people are racist;

49 percent would ban statements that Christians are backward and brainwashed;

49 percent would ban speech that criticizes police;

41 percent would ban speakers who say undocumented immigrants should be deported;

74 percent said universities should cancel speakers if students threaten violent protest;

19 percent said violence is justified to stifle speakers who might make others uncomfortable;

and 51 percent said it was OK to prevent others from hearing a speaker.

“In such a climate, the heckler’s veto reigns supreme and any expression that is offensive to any subgroup on campus would be banned,” Williams said.

College experiences should involve challenging our beliefs, even when those experiences go beyond our comfort level, and no campus group has the right to determine for the entire community what can be discussed, the authors said.

Universities can take several steps to help students avoid the biases that prevent them from valuing other points of view and to reduce extremist views and confrontations, they said.

Just as colleges require that freshmen understand codes of conduct for sexual harassment, plagiarism and intoxication, they could require freshmen to understand the differences between free speech and hate speech, between First Amendment protections and speech codes, and the meaning of “evidence.”

Role-playing exercises could be woven into controversial seminars in which supporters of each side are asked to switch sides. And universities could organize civil debates on controversial topics.

Students should be made to understand they are entering a place that believes deeply in the importance of dialogue and free speech, Ceci said.

“Free speech isn’t just for opinions that we all share. That kind of speech doesn’t need protecting,” he said. “It’s for expressions that can be vile and hateful and disgusting. That has to be part of the cultural understanding.”

#Susan Kelley #Cornell University #free speech #freedom of speech #academic freedom #academic integrity #censorship #speech codes #hate speech #religion is a mental illness

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

March 10, 2023

Heather Cox Richardson

At the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) last weekend, Daily Wire host Michael Knowles said that “for the good of society…transgenderism must be eradicated from public life entirely—the whole preposterous ideology, at every level.” He worded his statement in such a way that it would inevitably create outrage that he could then angrily refute by insisting that “eradicating transgenderism” was not the same thing as eradicating transgender people. This sort of word game is a well-known right-wing tactic for garnering media attention.

Make no mistake: this attack on transgender people represents a deadly attack on the fundamental principle of American democracy, the idea that all people are created equal.

CPAC and its representatives have become increasingly close to Hungarian president Victor Orbán as he has asserted autocratic power in his own country. Orbán has explicitly rejected the liberal democracy that his country used to enjoy, saying that its emphasis on multiculturalism weakens national cultures while its insistence on human equality undermines traditional society by recognizing that women and LGBTQ people have the same rights as straight white men. The age of liberal democracy is over, he says, and a new age has begun.

In place of equality, Orbán advocates what he calls “illiberal democracy” or “Christian democracy.” “Christian democracy is, by definition, not liberal,” he said in July 2018; “it is, if you like, illiberal. And we can specifically say this in connection with a few important issues—say, three great issues. Liberal democracy is in favor of multiculturalism, while Christian democracy gives priority to Christian culture; this is an illiberal concept. Liberal democracy is pro-immigration, while Christian democracy is anti-immigration; this is again a genuinely illiberal concept. And liberal democracy sides with adaptable family models, while Christian democracy rests on the foundations of the Christian family model; once more, this is an illiberal concept.”

Orbán has focused on LBGTQ rights as a danger to “Western civilization.” Arguing the need to protect children, his party has made it impossible for transgender people to change their gender identification on legal documents and made it illegal to share with minors any content that can be interpreted as promoting an LBGTQ lifestyle. After Orbán put allies in charge of Hungarian universities, his government banned public funding for gender studies courses. According to his chief of staff: “The Hungarian government is of the clear view that people are born either men or women.”

As the opening speaker at CPAC in Texas last August, Orbán called for the establishment of a global right wing to continue to work together to destroy liberal democracy and establish Christian democracy.

The American right wing has heard the call, openly embracing Orbán’s principles. Vox senior correspondent Zack Beauchamp, who is a crackerjack analyst of right-wing political ideology both in the U.S. and abroad, noted in 2021 the rise of right-wing ideologues who saw themselves as the vanguard of a “post-liberal order.”

Beauchamp explained that these ideologues reject American democracy. They argue that “religious liberty, limited government, ‘the inviolability of private institutions (e.g., corporations),’ academic freedom, constitutional originalism, free markets, and free speech”—all central tenets of democracy—have created “liberal totalitarianism” that has destroyed “all institutions that were originally responsible for fostering human virtue: family, ennobling friendship, community, university, polity, church.”

They see the government institutions that defend these democratic tenets as part of a totalitarian system designed to destroy national virtue. If this were truly the case (it is not), it would be an act of heroism to try to destroy those systems altogether. Right-wing attacks on the FBI, the Department of Justice, and even the government itself over the arrest of January 6th rioters who they insist were peaceful tourists shore up the idea that the FBI and DOJ are part of a government determined to crush Trump supporters. That ideology invites those who believe it to continue to attack our government.

Knowles’s statement last week that transgenderism must be eradicated from public life was not simply an attack on transgender individuals, although it was certainly that. Tapping into the anti-LGBTQ sentiment that Orbán and those like him have used to win voters, the statement was a crucial salvo in the attempt to destroy American democracy and replace it with Christian nationalism.

But there is a very simple answer to the radical right’s attack on LGBTQ people that also answers their rejection of democracy. It is an answer that history has proved again and again.

Once you give up the principle of equality, you have given up the whole game. You have admitted the principle that people are unequal, and that some people are better than others. Once you have replaced the principle of equality with the idea that humans are unequal, you have stamped your approval on the idea of rulers and subjects. At that point, all you can do is to hope that no one in power decides that you belong in the lesser group.

In 1858, Abraham Lincoln, then a candidate for the Senate, warned that arguments limiting American equality to white men and excluding black Americans were the same arguments “that kings have made for enslaving the people in all ages of the world…. Turn in whatever way you will—whether it come from the mouth of a King, an excuse for enslaving the people of his country, or from the mouth of men of one race as a reason for enslaving the men of another race, it is all the same old serpent.”

Either people—men, in his day—were equal, or they were not. Lincoln went on: “I should like to know if taking this old Declaration of Independence, which declares that all men are equal upon principle and making exceptions to it…where will it stop?”

—

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #equality #LGBTQ #the principle of equality #authoritarianism #white supremecy #illiberal democracy #democratic rule #Bizarro Comics

[mariacallous]

TEHRAN—Almost immediately after Iranian authorities announced that President Ebrahim Raisi had died on May 19, black mourning flags were raised across Tehran. Residents in the capital awoke the following day to giant banners on most street corners depicting the late leader with poems and flattering language about him.

Campaign posters are expected to follow soon: According to Iran’s constitution, a new president must be chosen within 50 days of a leader’s death. The vote to elect Raisi’s successor is scheduled for June 28. On Sunday, Interior Minister Ahmad Vahidi officially opened the presidential election season, ordering Iran’s provinces and cities to set up headquarters and committees to run elections within three days. Candidates can register between May 30 and June 3, the country’s Election Headquarters announced.

All candidates must be vetted by the Guardian Council, a 12-member clerical government body, before a two-week campaigning period starts on June 12. The new president will serve a full four-year term after his inauguration.

Saeed Jalili, a hard-liner and Iran’s former chief nuclear negotiator, is considered one of the contenders for the presidency, as is the current acting president, Mohammad Mokhber, who is close to Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. Former hard-liner President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad told supporters outside his Tehran home that he would consider running. Ali Larijani, the comparatively moderate former speaker of parliament, may also stand in the polls.

The May 19 helicopter crash that killed Raisi also claimed the lives of Foreign Minister Hossein Amir-Abdollahian and six others and triggered five days of mourning—national holidays that culminated in the 63-year-old president’s burial last Thursday at the Imam Reza Shrine in Mashhad, Iran’s holiest site. The funeral drew around 3 million people, according to the city’s mayor. Many traveled from afar by train after a television broadcast advertised free accommodation at hotels and guesthouses. Hamas chief Ismail Haniyeh, who is based in Qatar, visited Tehran on Wednesday for one of Raisi’s funeral processions.

Thousands more gathered at the Shah Abdol-Azim shrine in Rey, a suburb of Tehran, to attend Amir-Abdollahian’s funeral. Chants of “death to Israel, death to America” echoed through the crowds at the shrine, where people waved Iranian, Palestinian, Hezbollah, and Hamas flags. Mourners squeezed tightly into the shrine’s courtyard where, teary-eyed and praying, they threw fresh flowers onto Amir-Abdollahian’s coffin as it arrived for its final rest.

“We’re bidding farewell,” 45-year-old Tahere Mehrabi said, her hands held up in prayer. “The nation is grieving, but we’re hoping for a bright future. That’s also why I’m heading to the polls,” she added.

Islamic scholar Hamid Rajeri, 45, confirmed his intention to vote but added with disgust that he had also seen a different side of Iran “while the whole country was grieving,” referring to social media posts celebrating Raisi’s death. “These martyrs were popular figures and our people are devastated. Those celebrating are hooligans,” he said.

Raisi’s death has exposed further fissures in Iranian society. While millions grieved, others used the unexpected national holiday for an impromptu vacation, traveling to northern Iran’s mountains. In Tehran, groups of students who lacked the funds for trips gathered in coffee shops and parks, playing card games and drinking hot black tea from thermoses.

“Why should we be sad? We know him as the ‘Butcher of Tehran,’” said an 18-year-old engineering student, her bright pink hair uncovered and her ears decked with piercings. She spoke on the condition of anonymity, fearing identification by the government. In the 1980s, Raisi oversaw mass executions of political prisoners, she added.

Under his leadership in 2022, Iran cracked down hard on anti-government protests following the death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini, who was detained by Iran’s morality police for wearing “improper” clothing and later died in the hospital. “We want justice and political change, but the system is not changing. It’s frustrating,” the student said, sitting on the grass with six of her classmates. When asked if she would vote next month, she shook her head. “Not me, not my friends.”

Raisi, known for his close alignment with the 85-year-old Khamenei, was widely regarded by experts as his potential successor. Raisi assumed office in 2021 after the Guardian Council disqualified several moderate and reformist opponents in that year’s presidential election, triggering record-low voter turnout of 48.8 percent. Experts say that the upcoming election is unlikely to bring significant changes to Iran’s ruling system. Just 41 percent of eligible voters participated in March’s parliamentary election.

“Back in 2021, the supreme leader wanted a true loyalist in power, a supporter of the deep state and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps,” said Hamidreza Azizi, an expert on Iranian foreign policy and visiting fellow at the German Institute for International and Security Affairs. “Nothing substantial has changed on that front. The government is seeking a safe transition of supreme leaders, so it is unlikely that they will allow outsiders to come in and jeopardize this interest.” Given Khamenei’s age, many are speculating about his health and potential succession.

Azizi does not expect significant changes in voter turnout, either. “Even if moderate and reformist candidates are qualified in the upcoming elections—which isn’t guaranteed—I don’t think people will show up in big numbers,” he said. Dislike of the government is also widespread among Iranians, Azizi said. The urban middle class has expressed this sentiment on social media and via social disobedience, such as women’s refusal to wear the mandatory headscarf. Dissatisfaction has grown in smaller, lower-income towns, too, where residents have launched sporadic protests against the government over economic struggles.

“The reality is that all Iranians suffer from economic, social, and political restrictions, and there is no immediate solution in sight—especially as long as foreign sanctions and systemic corruption exist,” Azizi added.

However, some experts argue that the upcoming snap election presents an opportunity for change in Iran. “Last time, the Guardian Council disqualified several people, but it appears they will have a more inclusive approach this time, mostly due to the low voter turnout during the 2021 polls and the criticism the council faced,” explained Afifeh Abedi, a reformist parliamentary candidate for the Tehran constituency who ran in Iran’s legislative elections this spring.

With official campaigns set to start on June 12, Abedi hopes that a more inclusive approach to elections and candidate qualification will bring Iranians to the polls—especially in the capital, where voter participation has been lower than in other provinces.

As the mourning period and funerals concluded last Friday, Tehran returned to normalcy, save for the Raisi banners and black flags. Shops were open, and restaurants were packed. Over the weekend, students strolled down the city center’s Enghelab Street, rummaging through bookstores and ordering saffron ice cream floats with carrot juice. In the evenings, dozens of people gathered on a hilltop dubbed the “roof of Tehran” to watch the sun set over the city. Children flew kites, young couples sat listening to music, and families poured cups of tea.

“Between sanctions, politics, and the economy, life isn’t easy here,” a 20-year-old woman said as she sat with her friends after trekking up the hill, staring into the city lights. She, too, spoke on the condition of anonymity to protect her safety. “Many young people want to leave, but after all, this is our country. This is our culture. It’s home—and regardless of the circumstances, leaving home is not easy.”

[dragoneyes618]

(January 15, 2024 / JNS)

Israeli soccer player Sagiv Jehezkel (sometimes spelled Yehezkel), who plays for Turkish club Antalyaspor, was released from custody on Monday and is expected to leave Turkey immediately, Kan News reported.

Jehezkel was suspended from his team and was to face charges in court for incitement after showing support for Israeli hostages kidnapped by Hamas on Oct. 7.

Israel’s Foreign Ministry took credit for Jehezkel’s sudden release.

“For the last 24 hours, under the guidance of Foreign Minister Israel Katz, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs worked with all the relevant parties in Turkey in order to bring about the speedy release of Sagiv Jehezkel,” the ministry said in a statement.

“Turkey has become a dark dictatorship, working against humane values ​​and sports values,” Katz said.

“Whoever arrests a soccer player for an act of identification with 136 abductees who have been held for over 100 days by the terrorists of a murderous terrorist organization, represents a culture of murder and hatred,” he added.

Katz called on the international community to act against Turkey for threatening athletes. “Today it’s Sagiv Jehezkel, tomorrow it’s another athlete.”

Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant accused Turkey of ingratitude following the incident, posting to X: “When there was an earthquake in Turkey less than a year ago, Israel was the first country to stand up and extend aid that saved the lives of many Turkish citizens.

“The scandalous arrest of the footballer Sagiv Jehezkel is an expression of hypocrisy and ingratitude. In its actions, Turkey serves as the executive arm of Hamas,” he said.

Jehezkel, 28, was arrested early Monday by police after showing at a game a message written on a bandaged hand: “100 days. 7.10” along with a Star of David in solidarity with hostages held by Hamas on the 100th day of their captivity.

The city of Antalya’s Chief Public Prosecutor’s Officer charged Jehezkel with “inciting the public to hatred and hostility,” according to Anadolu Agency, Turkey’s state-run news service.

Antalyaspor’s deputy president and spokesperson Evren Alkan said that the club would terminate Jehezkel’s deal. If the club ended the three-season contract, it would owe Jehezkel $1 million, Israel’s Channel 12 reported.

The club announced after the game on Sunday that it was suspending Jehezkel, who plays right-wing for the top-flight club and has played for the Israel national team on eight occasions so far.

“Sagiv Jehezkel, following his goal in the 68th minute during the match against Trabzonspor, has been deemed to have acted against our country’s national values by sharing an inscription on his wrist. In response, the board of directors has decided to exclude him from the squad,” the club said in a statement posted to social media.

Antalyaspor had initially uploaded Jehezkel’s goal-scoring celebration to its social media accounts, but deleted them minutes later after the posts ignited widespread anger among fans and in the media.

The club’s actions disappointed Jehezkel, according to those close to him, Ynet reported. Jehezkel has been productive for the club, scoring six goals and two assists in 13 matches.

Jehezkel told police and his club that he meant his act as a humanitarian gesture, not a provocation.

“I am not in favor of war. There are Israeli soldiers captured in Gaza. I think the war should end now, that’s why I showed the sign. I have nothing to do with politics. I have never done anything political since I arrived in Turkey. I have never disrespected anyone,” he said.

Initially, the Israel Football Association (IFA) chartered a private plane to take Jehezkel from Turkey, but then Jehezkel was informed that the police wanted him for questioning.

IFA head Moshe Zuares also had tried to enlist the help of the Turkish Football Federation (TFF), but it, too, condemned Jehezkel.

“His suspension is appropriate. Necessary procedures and disciplinary investigations against those responsible were opened immediately. The public should have no doubt that necessary measures will be taken against those responsible for this act, which offends human dignity and the conscience of Turkish society,” the TFF said.

Anger in Turkey has also spilled out against Eden Kartsev, an Israeli defensive midfielder for Turkish Süper Lig club İstanbul Başakşehir, after he expressed support for Jehezkel.

Maccabi Haifa is considering adding Kartsev to its roster as he may now leave Turkey, Israel Hayom reported.

After a cold spell in relations, Turkey had made friendly gestures towards Israel but President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan reverted to form following the Oct. 7 attack and has made inciting speeches against Israel and recalled Turkey’s ambassador from Israel.

In late December, Erdoğan compared Netanyahu to Adolf Hitler.

“We watched Israel’s Nazi camps. What kind of job is this?” asked Erdoğan during a speech, according to a Channel 12 translation. “They talk about Hitler in a strange way. What is the difference between them and Hitler? They will make us miss Hitler even more,” he continued.

Meanwhile, on Sunday a moment of silence was observed followed by shouts of “Free Palestine” at an Asian Cup game between Iran and the Palestinian soccer team in Qatar.

#israel under attack #israel under fire #hamas hostages #bring them home now #israel #turkey #pro israel #Sagiv Jehezkel

[mintytoasty]

Hello and welcome this is the fourth time I’ve had a Tumblr account, unfortunately, I suck with passwords so this might happen again. I can’t guarantee anything. However, as of recent, I have since purged many files and useless accounts that I no longer use, along with merging tons of others. So this is my final attempt to get myself situated to be better at organizing my things online.

I’m making this post as introduction, and as a way to forward, all of my previous works that I saved in a Google docs. I was attempting one whole year of haiku poetry in 2022 I believe. So I’m going to copy and paste that to my poetry blog “minty poetry”.

Blog Goals

This main blog is for personal announcements, rants, content updates, fandom interactions, project ideas, and the likewise management of subsequent blogs. 

Other Blogs:

MintyToastyPoetry (peoms)

MintyToastyWrites (short stories)

MintyToastySpeaks (hottakes)

MintysToastyCamera (photos)

MintyToastyBakes (food)

MintyToastyGames (Gaming)

Introduction

Anyways here’s the main gist of the introduction;

Hi! My name is Minty/Dej. I am a guy (He/Him, GNC Male) who’s traveled 24/50 states, three countries outside the USA (not Canada regrettably), and lives within the USA.

✨💫 Interests💫✨

Writing, Reading, Researching, Minecraft, Digital and Sketching, Photography, Meteorology/Weather, Pokémon, Psychology, Political and Social Philosophy, History, Gardening, Baking, Vexillology (Flag history and making flags), and yeah.

⚡️ 🧠 Personality🧠 ⚡️

(If you are interested in Typology)

MBTI- ISFP

OPT: ISTP-T

16p: ISTP

Enneagram: 6w5

🍂⚡️Dislikes⚡️🍂

🔥Anyone Disrespectful towards Neurodivergents

🔥Anyone making a promise knowing they can’t keep it

🔥Any form of Unresponsive power structures

🔥Anyone being uncalled for, rude, intolerant, judgemental and toxic.

🔥Anyone spearheading drama with guilt by association posts and drama, aka, forcing people to defend things that they don’t agree with

🏹⚔️Leanings⚔️🏹

Politically: Center-Right

Economically: Middle Libright

Socially: Libertarian

Party Identification: Independent

Religiously: Christian

Sector: Protestant

Denomination: Raised Lutheran, currently Independent Lutheran

Other things: Pro-peace 🕊️, Pro-decentralization 💰 , Pro-1A 🎤 , Pro-2A 🏹 , LGBTQ Reciprocity 🏳️‍🌈 , Religious Liberty 🗽, Education Reform 🏫, Land Value Tax 💴, Environmental Justice 🌱

A quote I like from one of my friends:

☀️🔰“I’m tired of trying to convince people who hate me and refuse to listen when I try to be nice.”🔰☀️



#intro post #introduction #get to know me #reupload

[bonesandthebees]

Okay, so I am actually going to continue with chapter 21, because I really want to do the worldbuilding and then I’ll probably skip over everything else and slot the last scene into the guilt section of chapter 22, because those boys have a lot of guilt. Hot damn.

Anyway, let’s start with the sort of official image of the Pythia because that’s a very cool concept. Like of course, they don’t want anyone to know what the Pythia looks like. So a general appearance of the Pythia is a good solution. Like every for making movies it’s nice because of course you won’t get the actual Pythia in it. I am surprised that they are allowed to make movies about the Pythia, but it’s probably similar to making movies about Jesus. They need to spread the message.

And apparently advertisements campaigns. Is that a recent thing, or has it always been that way? Because it definitely shows how little Schlatt and his government actually care about Clara and the Pythia. They don’t respect what She is and what She stands for. It’s just a way to make money and control the public. A means to further their own ends.

Then we’ve already talked about Mr Beast, but it says a lot about the world and the broken healthcare system that that’s where the bills are for. The people are very desperate to get those paid off. It also ties into how prosthetics are often easier or less expensive than decent health care, but those things probably still cost a lot. Generally, very fucked up image of the city.

There’s also how many people are still out and about at this time of night(?). Clearly a big and busy city. And of course, there’s the cops and their total dominion over the country. It’s incredibly hard to lose them once they have their eyes on Wilbur and Tommy. Also, the face that they can just scan your face and know everything about you is very fucked up.

-🌲

yeah it's not like there's an 'official' image of the pythia but like the stereotypical one that gets presented in movies and tv shows. also i've said this before, but the pythia is less like jesus and more like the pope. a religious leader figure, but not the actual one being worshipped. and yes you do see the pope being used in tv shows and all that (like that show the young pope). so that's kind of the idea there. the stereotypical image of the pythia is usually a young, attractive woman who might pop up in movies or tv shows who either offers the characters Wise Guidance for their journey or there's a stereotypical damsel in distress kind of sideplot with her. but then also the pythia's 'image' can be used in ads as well because nothing is safe from capitalism :) also the pythia has always been used in ads, it's not a new thing with schlatt's government. it's gotten more common over the decades because of how pervasive and overbearing advertisement has become in the glass universe, but it was never 'illegal' per se. it was just considered a social taboo for a while before it slowly became more acceptable. again, the pythia isn't like jesus. the pythia is more like the pope.

also it's not necessarily about spreading the message. clara is worshipped throughout the entire country of manberg. it's more like... just the pervasiveness of religion in everyday lives? but also turning anything and everything into a commodity. even spirituality and religion can be sold to you these days. use it as a tool for entertainment, use it as a tool for marketing. nothing is sacred. it's all free game. I included those bits as more of an economic and societal commentary than a religious propaganda standpoint although it definitely functions as religious propaganda as well, just not as much.

lol yeah the city is fucked up. man imagine not being able to afford healthcare. glad that's not true in one of the biggest and wealthiest countries in the world hahahaahaha (help me)

oh yeah it's a very active city. also it was a friday night. things were popping off.

facial identification is fucking terrifying!! that's literally the direction we're heading in at this point irl so yeah a lot of the worldbuilding in glass contains a lot of my fears for what our future is going to look like very soon

#ask #spruce anon #glass general #glass ch 21 #through a glass divine

[haggishlyhagging]

Two other examples of erasure are worth mentioning. On one occasion, a group of high-powered, nationally-known Democratic women were on a TV panel discussing women in politics. Although I knew a couple of them personally, my name was not mentioned, even in passing. It could be argued, I suppose, that I was not mentioned because in fact I was not "in politics" in the male-defined sense which those women interpret as being "in politics." and therefore mentioning me would have been an embarrassment.

But if I was not "in politics," what was I in?

During the question-and-answer period following a well-known female politico's speech one night, a friend of mine in the audience asked her about my campaign. The speaker addressed the subject carefully for several minutes. Then, a very short time later, while responding to someone else's question, she declared passionately, "If there were a woman running, I'd support her!"

If I was not a "woman running," what was I?

What I was was a woman running without the men's approval, which meant I could not be regarded as really running. I was an embarrassment because I thought that my own approval was enough; because I was playing the women's game of feminist activism on the men's board. I hadn't been invited, so I was crashing the party.

I wasn't even trying to do it as a female impersonator or a junior man, which would have eased the discomfort a little. I was doing it blatantly and unashamedly as a woman, calling deliberate attention to my woman-identification—calling myself a feminist and proposing a complete feminist agenda, not just for this country, but for the planet. And I was doing this when practically everybody is embarrassed when we become too serious about "women's stuff."

Since politics is quintessential patriarchy, making feminism not just tangential but central is a serious gaffe. So the co-opted averted their eyes, and held their handkerchiefs delicately to their noses, pretending it wasn't really happening, as we do when someone farts in public.

I hadn't been invited, and, worse yet, I was crashing the party in my authentic, and therefore inadmissable, garb: womanliness.

-Sonia Johnson, Going Out of Our Minds: The Metaphysics of Liberation

#sonia johnson #female oppression #female erasure #usa politics #patriarchy

[voidsumbrella]

tagged by @maryjanewatson hi parker thank you parker

last song: ive been going through the noise-arch tapes archive by means of downloading the whole thing and playing them all in alphabetical order, though ive been gently shuffling the ones that are entirely harsh drone noise off into a separate folder and will figure out if i like any of them later. sometimes you get static and spoken word poetry interspersed with warehouse clanging noises, and sometimes you get country blues with accordions. it's fun!

favorite color: heather gray :>

last movie/show: im tragically allergic to watching things that require any amount of attention, but i currently have known streamer of bad video games @/socpens streaming poppy's playtime 3 on my other monitor. it's... not as bad as it could be, i guess?

sweet/spicy/savory: savory 100%

relationship status: engaged :>

last thing i googled: slate mohs hardness scale

current obsession: rockhounding and identification and also my ocs.

↑ look at them

uhh i can't think of anyone to tag. if you see this and you want to do it go for it ig

#real life mango

[mask131]

The arduous path to French fantasy

If you recall, not too long ago I posted a rough translation of an article by the BNF (National French Library) called "A cosmogony of French fantasy", taking a look at the fantasy genre in French literature. Well I just discovered something that blew my mind.

The journal this article was part of, was actually one of a series of journal-reviews published by the BNF entirely centered around fantasy. The article "Cosmogony" was from the issue centered around "Worldbuilding", but I found another article talking about the history of the fantasy genre in French literature, this time coming from an issue of "BNF - Fantasy" with for theme "Modern success".

So here is the rough translation of: Fantasy in France, a long road... Originally written by Anne Besson

Fantasy has been present in France for numerous decades, but it had to wait until the turn of the 21st century to actually be recognized as its own genre, thanks to the work of fans and of independant publishing houses.

The main reason fantasy arrived quite "late" in French literature was due to a lack of identification. Numerous fantasy works were already published in France for a long time - but there was no specific collections dedicated to fantasy, and the very name "fantasy" wasn't used. For example, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was translated in France in 1972-1973, by the publishing house Christian Bourgois - which is VERY late compared to other European countries, that had done a translating work long before. Other main works of fantasy only came in France under the shadow or as satellites of other literary genres. First, under the fantastique genre, with the collection "Aventures fantastiques" (Fantastical adventures) by Opta, then under the science-fiction genre. [Note: I said it before, but "fantastique" is a genre of French literature centered around a supernatural element arriving into a mundane and realistic setting very similar to our own. Dracula is "fantastique", for example] The works of Jack Vance were translated by the "Club du Livre d'Anticipation" (The Anticipation Book Club), Roger Zelzany's Chronicles of Amber was found originally in "Présence du futur" (Presence of the future), then in "Folio SF". In fact, for a very long time the term "science-fiction" will dominate the French edition, used as a general category for many non-realistic work - even what was identified by the 80s as "heroic fantasy" was named by French editors "science-fiction".

It is only at the end of the 1990s, and at the beginning of the 2000s that the word "fantasy" appeared - it was when specific collections and specialized publishing houses also formed themselves, such as Nestiveqnen or Mnémos, all derived from the editing industry of role-playing games. In 2000, the publishing house Bragelonne will decide to translate the works of David Gemmell and Terry Goodkind, great fantasy authors that hadn't been translated in French yet, and which were massive successes that helped the expansion of the fantasy industry in France.

Fans are definitively those that make fantasy live the most in France. Alongside the fantasy boom of the 90s-2000s, numerous actors appeared in what was called the "micro-edition", a very dynamic but very fragile world. Numerous festivals started popping out everywhere, and fandoms appearing thanks to the Internet became the main sources of information about the genre.

The growing importance of this sector, and the apparition of "experts" of fantasy, is translated by a new care for fantasy as a genre. Numerous classical authors ignored until this point get translated (such as William Morris, by "Aux forges de Vulcain", "In Vulcan's forge"). Numerous "integral" editions are offered by Bragelonne, Pocket or J'ai Lu. You also have several re-translations, offering a new French text closer and more respectful towards the originals (Patrice Louinet reworked on Robert E. Howard, while David Camus offered new H.P. Lovecraft translations, and Daniel Lauzon completely redid the French Tolkien works).

But truly French fantasy works - as in, French-written fantasy works created by francophone authors - were for a long time considered as "secondary" works. Late to the party, they had a hard time imposing themselves among the many translations of English-works. But today, we can consider that the French creation reached a level of "full maturity". In fact, we re-discover today an old French fantasy that had been forgotten by previous generations - Les centaures by André Lichtenberg in 1904, re-edited by the Callidor editions in 2017 ; or the duology Khanaor by Francis Berthelot in 1983. But, again, it was at the end of the 90s that the "New French School" of fantasy appeared, embodied by the trio of Mathieu Gaborit (Les Chroniques des Crépusculaires, 1995-1996, The Chronicles of the Dusk-people), Fabrice Colin (Arcadia, 1998 or Winterheim, 1999-2003) and Henri Loevenbruck (La Moïra, or Gallica, both starting in 2001).

Editors started accepting in their ranks authors with very unique, peculiar or demanding imaginations. Among these specific works we can find the Horde du contrevent (Horde of the counter-wind) by Alain Damasio, in 2004, by the house La Volte, or Jean-Philippe Jaworski's works (Récits du vieux royaume, Tales of the old kingdom, 2007, or Rois du monde, Kings of the world, 2013) in the house Les moutons électriques.

Other independant editors (note: In English I don't know if you can say "indie publishing houses" or if the "indie" term is only applied to video games and animation) also started imposing themselves. Scrinéo published Gabriel Katz, ActuSF published Karim Berrouka, Critic's published Estelle Faye and Lionel Davoust. Finally the "historical" actors of the domain, the "ancients" of the fantasy genre, also started encouraging the growth of French talents: L'Atalante published Régis Goddyn, Mnémos published Adrien Tomas and Charlotte Bousquet. As for Bragelonne they have Pierre Pevel, who is the great example of a fantasy inspired by the old French feuilletons - his Les Enchantements d'Ambremer (The Enchantments of Ambersea, 2003) are inspired by Arsène Lupin, while his Les Lames du Cardinal (The Blades of the Cardinal, 2007), reference and pay homage to Alexandre Dumas. About this last series: it was actually the very first French fantasy series to ever be translated in the United-States!

#fantasy literature #fantasy #french fantasy #french literature #fantasy history #fantasy references #fantasy novels #foreign fantasy