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preciouslandmermaid · 1 year

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cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/3

Note: This got longer than expected, so now it’s gonna be 3 chapters instead of 2. LMAO. This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic.

Rating/Warning: Canon typical violence, blood/injury/and minor gore. Thigh grinding and making out. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) haha ! nice! (also those gloves make me feral)

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~

In the days that follow, you settle into a routine with Ghost and Soap at the safe house. Samira looked after Soap. She attended to his medical needs and physical therapy. He’s a decent patient until his frustration boils over and then he’s huffing like an old goat and crossing his arms. Agathi’s boys worked the farmland. They shovel manure, or prune plants, or tend to the harvest. The security of the safe house is organized into scheduled shifts. The perimeter of the property, the barn, and the house itself are your main concerns.

However, Ghost took over the sniper position at the barn. Instead of following the six-hour schedule, he stayed up there for twelve to fourteen hours. When he returns to the house, he talks to Soap, rests, then returns to the barn without speaking to anyone else. You don’t take it personally. Ghost is a diligent operative. He never wavers. He never falters. You are safer, Lukas is safer, with him here.

Your nails are encrusted with dark, rich earth from digging up carrots with James and Lukas. Lukas’ favorite task is to unearth food you’ve grown. He smiles brightly, holding aloft potatoes or carrots or stalks of green onions, and you cannot help but smile in return. He is a sweet and tender boy. And its awe inspiring someone so sweet and gentle could come from you. A trained killer. A girl made of ice. A woman without identity, without roots.

You skim your dirty hands across the stalks of tall reeds while walking down the dirt, pebble-strewn road. A lone bird calls out to signal that night is upon them and the predators will awaken soon. Your smile tugs errantly at the corners of your mouth.

The sky is bruising purple and dusky blue. The clouds on the horizon promised rain. You can smell in the air – fresh, biting, and green. You unscrew the cap of your flask and swallow a warm, robust mouthful of black tea. The dilapidated barn leans against a backdrop of dying sunlight like a wounded animal. Sven emerges from the grass with a sheepish smile. His blue eyes dart briefly to the barn loft.

He says, “time for shift change already?”

“I’m early.” You ruffle his stringy, blonde hair. “Go on. Your brother is waiting.”

Sven flushes bright red. “Thanks.”

You watch him jog down the road with a flashlight in his hand. You check under the tire well of the abandoned truck and find the hidden pistol. You check the safety and clip. You tuck it away again. Price, the thoughtful bastard, managed to arrange a covert supply drop. Ghost collected it earlier in the week. It contained ammunition, infrared lights, night vision scopes, and supplies for Soap and Ghost.

Price can get into serious trouble by his superiors if anyone finds out about it.

You aren’t sure why he keeps sticking his neck out to help you, but you’re grateful. You think of Lukas. You wonder if he suspects anything. Samira often says fondly, ‘it’s as if God took the blueprints of you and made him.’ You don’t see it. And whenever you tell Samira this, she laughs, and her scarred skin stretches with joy.

The wooden ladder creaks when you ascend it. Ghost is perched with his sniper and completely unmoving. Your nostrils itch as the scent of old, dusty hay fills them. You sniffle and wipe your nose with your knuckles.

“All clear,” drawls Ghost.

“Yes, I know. I was just outside.”

Ghost scoffs. You settle crossed legged next to him. You glance at his stark black-and-white profile. His sandy eyelashes flutter against his black-painted skin. Your body hums with acute unspoken desire. You trace the shapes of his tattoos on his forearm. You would give anything to touch him and feel the hot expanse of his skin across your palms. You’ve lain awake in your cold bed, tossing, and turning and coiled with taut desire, and wondered if he’d shun you if you came to find him. But you always manage to talk yourself out of it.

There’s no benefit in complicating matters further. Noreth is at war. You and Lukas can’t leave. Soap and Ghost can’t leave. The best course of action is to lay low and keep safe until extraction. You swallow another gulp of tea and watch the cloudy, star dotted horizon and swaying tall grass.

“What’re you drinking?”

“Tea.” You wipe your mouth with your fingers.

“Nothing stronger?” He grouses.

“We’ve got vodka back at the house.”

He gives a small shake of his head. “Foul.”

You extend your arm toward him, the flask pinched between your fingers, and Ghost glances sidelong at you. Seconds pass. You’re about to pull it away. But then Ghost reaches and accepts the flask without touching you. You force yourself to look away rather than look at him. You imagine the shape of his lips closing over the mouth of the flask. You imagine his muscled throat shifting when he swallows. You imagine him wiping away a teardrop of tea from the corner of his mouth with his gloved thumb. You wait until you hear the sound of the cap screwing back on before looking at him again.

His mask is pushed up to right below his nose. His jaw is shadowed with dark blonde stubble. You recall how it scratched against your bare skin and left faint, irritated red lines. You avert your eyes.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” He mumbles.

You shrug, “things have changed.”

“Have they?” He says and the words are deep and rumbling. You take the flask from him and drink to delay answering his question. Things have changed. You are no longer an intelligence agent. You deserted. You have a child. You have good people relying on you. You have a reason beyond survival to carve a place for yourself in this new world.

“A bit.” You respond vaguely. The silence stretches, weighted and poignant, and you crack your knuckles one finger at a time. It never used to be awkward with Simon. Or has nostalgia completely skewed your perception? Or is it your guilt? Your fingertips touch when you pass the flask again. An electric jolt fires across your skin. You meet his heavily lidded, shadowed eyes. The unsaid words and confessions linger on your tongue. The distance between you is miniscule. It’s mere inches, but it feels like an endless chasm. You risk the danger and shift closer.

His skeletal gloved fingers graze along the feverish skin on your inner wrist.

“We shouldn’t complicate things.” You blurt. Your secret presses on every of your chamber of your heart. His presses his lips together and cocks his head to the side.

“We’re well past that, Lux.”

“There are things you don’t know about me, Ghost.”

The rough texture of his gloves glides up to your shoulder, lightly touching your neck, and you feel his index finger slide under the golden chain of your necklace. Your pulse throbs in your carotid artery. The moth charm twirls, pretty and light, between Simon’s large fingers.

“I’m not saying this to be coy or mysterious, Riley.” When you use his name, his eyes dart from your throat to your face, and you feel every ounce of his attention on you. You feel like a butterfly pinned to a display frame.

A hot and prickly sensation burns in your throat, “I have secrets you’d hate me for keeping.” You whisper.

You swallow with some difficulty. His tongue sweeps across his lower, chapped lip before he pulls his lower lip between his teeth briefly. Your heart stutters. You force your eyes from his mouth.

“I doubt that very much.” His voice is rumbling, and quiet, and its reverberation echoes into your spine. Your skin burns. Your breath, ragged and warm ,drags itself through your lungs and out your parted lips. You tilt forward and press your forehead against the cool, hard plastic of his mask. Your eyes shutter closed.

Simon says your name longingly. His breath tickles your chin. Your heart pangs to tell him the truth about Lukas, about Al-Qunbar, about Price and his help. Yet, pragmatism pinches your tongue in a vice grip. Lukas’ safety and well-being is everything to you. The less people who know the truth the better.

His lips ghost across yours. His stubble is prickly and rough. Without further prompting or encouragement, you kiss him and slide your tongue between his lips. You tremble and your breath huffs desperately through your nostrils. You hold his jaw. You need him close. You want to wrap your bodies together and remain glued. An overwhelming sensation of bliss floods through your veins. Simon’s tongue moves languidly and tastes of robust black tea. He squeezes the back of your neck, holding you tight and refusing to let you pull away. A heady sense of warmth explodes inside your chest and launches your heart into a tailspin.

You throw your leg over his big thigh, straddling it, and Simon makes a low, pleased sound at the back of his throat. His other hand clutches your hip—tight, possessive, his thumb digs into your flesh. He pitches your hips forward, then pushes back, and you quickly get the idea. You clothed cunt grinds against his muscled thigh. You encircle your arms around his neck, pressed chest-to-chest, and feel Simon’s every rough inhale and exhale. Your original plan to remain distant and uncomplicated has crashed and burned into ash and charcoal.

His tongue flicks obscenely and wetly into your open, panting mouth. “Can you come like this?” He asks, “or do you want my hand, hm? My fingers?” The thought of Simon’s hand shoved between your legs is enough to make your body tighten with anticipation and desire. You wonder if he’ll keep the gloves on.

“We have to keep watch.” You whimper.

He chuckles like deep, dark wine. “I can multitask.”

The temptation threatens to drag you underwater. You are swept into the current of Simon’s influence and your own intoxicating desire. His warm, rough burr. His large and deliberate hands. His strong, muscled arms and legs. His chiseled abdominal muscles quiver as you push your hands up his shirt and touch his hot, damp skin.

“God,” He drags the word out and tilts his head back to look up at you, “you’re gonna kill me, Lux.”

You smile. You are lost in the deep, coffee color of his eyes shadowed by ashen blonde lashes and smudged with black camo paint. They are the same shade as Lukas’. An arrow of guilt spears your heart. What are you doing? Noreth is at war. You’re on watch. You’ll never forgive yourself if Lukas got hurt because you let your lust overwhelm your logic. You clear your throat.

You say, “we – we should wait until we’re inside.” You climb off his leg and adjust your rumpled shirt. “Okay?”

Ghost licks his lips and watches you with dark, hungry eyes. “I’m a sniper. A few hours is nothing.”

“Great.” You reply, your voice tight, “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”

~~~~~~~~

The walk back to the heaven is tense. It is filled with piping hot anticipation and coated in white foam that tastes like a hopeful dream, a beggar’s wish. Two dimly lit windows peer like eyes onto the dead lawn and black skeletal shape of Kaja’s motorbike.

Simon’s palm glides along your lower back and blistering heat floods your stomach. Your body clenches and your clit throbs with pressure and desire. You’ve thought of nearly a dozen different positions and fantasies during your walk. This is unlike your time with the task force. You don’t need to avoid detection. Neither Samira nor Agathi will judge you. Although, for the sake of those sleeping, you resolve to do your best to stay quiet.

The front door opens to the sound of Lukas crying. Agathi is holding him, bouncing softly, and her tired face looks relieved when you cross the threshold.

“Nightmare.” She explains. Lukas reaches his tiny hands toward you.

“I’ve got him.” You bundle Lukas into your arms and kiss his flushed, sticky-with-tears cheek. You glance apologetically toward Ghost. Perhaps this is for the best. Maybe you shouldn’t sleep together. Maybe this was some unseen force ensuring that you and Ghost remain uncomplicated. Maybe it’s saving you from breaking your heart again. Once Soap is clear, Ghost will leave. You know it. You believe it.

You sway Lukas in your arms and mutter softly.

~~~~~~~~~

Ghost stands frozen in the doorway. The boy has his eyes. And the realization is like a leech. He cannot shake it. He cannot bear to be in the same room as you and the crying child. The child with his eyes. He stalks down the hall and ducks into the small room arranged for him and Soap.

Soap is asleep. He’s glad for it. He doesn’t want questions. His breath his ragged and edged like shrapnel in his lungs. His skin is flushed and stretched uncomfortably over his bones. You held Lukas sweetly. You kissed his face. You showed him more affection than James or Sven. How did he not see it earlier?

Lukas looks nothing like Sven or James or Agathi. He looks like you. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. You must’ve had a child with someone during your time in Al-Qunbar. He scowls. The maths didn’t add up there either. He guessed Lukas’ age is close to 3. Lukas would be younger if you gave birth to him in Al-Qunbar. Then when? With whom?

He swallows thickly and recalls your short time together. Lukas can’t be his. Can’t be. Can’t. He’s not fit to be a father. He’s a dangerous man. A killer. And a damn good one at that. His palms are sweaty and clammy. He peels off his skeletal gloves and tucks them into the back pocket of his pants. He chews his tongue with his back molars.

If Lukas is yours then he doubts the agency knows. A child is a target. A vulnerability. He starts cleaning one of his guns to keep his hands busy. The gun oil is slick and warm against his fingers. He clears his dry, uncomfortable throat. He thinks about your weighted words in the barn. You mentioned you had a secret. You said it was something he’d hate you for.

His slick, oiled hands move purposefully over the metal. His gaze flicks upward to Soap. He watches his chest breathing evenly beneath the dark sheets. They will stay here for a few weeks and then they’d leave. He can endure it.

You were never meant to have a reunion. And he is a fool for wishing for anything other than what he got. Regardless of who Lukas belongs to—he’s no one’s father. He’s not destined for a civilian life. He’s comfortable in the danger. He’s comfortable wearing the mask. He likes it too much to walk away.

He can’t go and live on a farm and change nappies. That’s not who he is. And he won’t bring danger to your doorstep. But he doesn’t want to say goodbye again. He doesn’t want you to disappear. Ghost sighs heavily and sets the pistol on his bouncing knee.

He needs to talk to you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took an hour to get Lukas back to sleep. You settle into one of the wooden chairs on your small, porch balcony outside your bedroom and watch the darkness and swaying grass. You roll the night vision scope between your palms and feel the roughed, grip texture. You peer through it ever-so-often toward the barn. You consider joining Kaja, but you don’t want to leave Lukas in case he has another nightmare.

A floorboard creaks. The smell of gun oil permeates the air. Ghost sits in the chair beside you.

He asks, “what’s the story between the kids here? They got family on the outside?”

You bite your lip. “Not really.”

“What about their dad?”

“Agathi’s husband is dead.” You explain.

Ghost rests his elbows on his knees, “and the small one?”

You chose your next words carefully. “He’s alive. I tell him his dad is a soldier working hard to keep everyone safe.”

Ghost stares at you, unblinking, and his gaze is like holding a lit cigar to your skin.

“That the truth?” says Ghost gruffly.

The crickets chirp, a chorus, a symphony, lonely and desperate for connection.

“The truth would hurt everyone, ” You shrug.

“It would hurt him.” You look meaningfully over your shoulder toward Lukas’ bedroom door adjacent to your room.

Simon’s tone is commanding and harsh as nails, “tell me the truth.”

You squeeze your eyes closed. A swirl of black and purple spots spin on the canvas of your eyelids. You had hoped to avoid this conversation. But Simon has connected the dots and you played your hand too heavily when you told him you carried a guilty secret.

“Do you remember Al-Qunbar?” You ask.

He hums, “Mhm.”

It was the last place you and Ghost met. A city of dust and smoke, a marble fountain that gurgled with blood.

“I was Qadir’s mistress,” you begin, referring to the politician that governed Al-Qunbar, “that was my cover. It was not uncommon in their culture for people of power, regardless of gender, to have multiple partners or spouses. And they considered multiple children as a sign of virility and good fortune.”

You inhale slowly. This is the part of the story that is like traversing a minefield. You’ve imagined telling him, but never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d get the chance.

“Qadir had many children. But his regime was unstable. I begged him to send the children away. I groveled.” Your voice quivers and tears sting your eyes like wasps. You bite down on your lower lip and compose yourself.

“Qadir refused. He said we’d all go together in the end. He gave poison disguised as medicine to his wives, his mistresses, his personal guards…his children…his children…”

You knew those children. You cared for them. You scrub a hand over your face. Finding the courage to topple dictators or stare at the barrel of a loaded gun is easy. But looking at Simon is impossible. You focus on a spot in the dark, starry horizon. The high grass that surrounds your property sways like whispering dancers.

“I knew I couldn't’ save them all, so I chose Lukas.”

“Samira helped. She was Qadir’s midwife and served in his military as a doctor. The day Qadir was assassinated, I got Lukas out, but I couldn’t leave Al-Qunbar. Not yet. The extremists, the loyalists, the American agents. None of them could know he was alive. I need to make it seem like everyone in Qadir’s family perished in the uprising.”

The wooden chair creaks like an old ship underneath Simon’s weight.

“You were the one who torched his compound.” He says. It’s not a question. You wonder if he read the file. You wonder if anyone told him your undercover name and saw you were listed under ‘killed in action’. You wonder if Price mentioned his part in helping you escape from under the thumb of imperialism.

You nod. You burned Qadir’s house, and all the bodies within, and fled. You earned yourself a deep wound from a sniper at the town square before you reunited with Ghost’s team.

Simon scoffs, “I think you’re a bit of an arsonist, Lux.”

You recognize his attempt at humor, but you can’t summon the energy to smile. You’ve told him the background, you’ve set the stage, but you haven’t brought the main actors into the play. You haven’t revealed the truth.

Your voice scratches as it travels up your throat. “I told Qadir the baby was his, but the timing was off.”

“He’s yours, Simon.” You finish weakly and your heart capsizes inside your chest, “he’s ours.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look away. The mask hides everything from you and his eyes are guarded and cold. He will hate you. You are sure of it. He will hate you for lying, for not contacting him, for keeping Lukas.

You lift the night vision scope to your face to hide your hurt expression.

~~~~~~~~~

“Shit!” You jolt upright, blood pounds in your ears, and your eyes swivel across the black landscape. You peer through the night vision binoculars to assure you saw Kaja’s signal accurately. You’re not mistaken. She flashed her infrared twice. Trouble.

“What is it?” Ghost is beside you, alert.

“Kaja is in trouble.”

He huffs. You think there’s a question poised in his eyes, but then a burst of gunfire illuminates the darkness like white fireworks. You drop like a stone into fight-or-flight. You run into the adjoining bedroom and scoop Lukas into your arms, waking him, and he cries – startled – in your arms. There is nothing inside your head beyond the checklist of tasks you must complete for your sons’ safety.

“It’s alright, lovey. It’s just a storm.” You assure him.

You barrel down the hallway. James and Sven step into the hallway with Agathi clutching their shoulders. You swerve pass them, taking the steps hurriedly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears and drowning out the sounds of Lukas’ tears and the encroaching gunfire. You don’t bother to look behind you or check for Ghost. He doesn’t know the household protocol, but he can handle himself in a fight. You aren’t worried about him.

“If you get out of that wheelchair, I’ll kill you myself.” Samira snaps. She shoves a loaded shotgun into Soap’s hand. “Protect the little ones.”

You duck into the basement. The door is heavily fortified, and along with supplies, the back left corner equipped with an escape tunnel.

“Alright, there, there, sweet boy.” You kiss the side of Lukas’ head, “it’s going to be alright.” You bounce in him in your arms, kissing and repeating platitudes, promising him that everything will be OK. You never expected motherhood to come equipped with so many desperate lies.

Agathi opens her arms for him.

Lukas’ little fingers cling to your neck, unintentionally scratching, and he is grabbing your shirt, red-faced and screaming. You pry him off. Your heart breaks. Your mouth is dry. You swallow your tears as Agathi cradles your son to her chest and rocks him. Her steely blue eyes meet yours—fierce, red-rimmed, and determined. You share a meaningful, wordless look. You’ve always known the role you would play if shit hit the fan. Agathi and Samira are the protectors.

And you?

You’re the fucking executioner.

“Be safe.” James says, squeezing your hand once before you hurry upstairs. The second your foot hits the landing, Samira shuts the door and extinguishes her lamp. In near-darkness, Sven tosses a body armor vest toward you. You clip it hastily, grabbing equipment from the case, and affixing it to your body. You grab a few extra throwing knives and tuck them into the holster on your chest.

Ghosts’ footfalls are quick and deceptively quiet as he comes downstairs, “counted five approaching.”

“There’s likely more with Kaja.” Samira says knowingly, pinning her dark hair away from her face and scowling.

“What’s the plan?” asks Soap.

“Defend the house.” You nod toward the basement door, “this door especially. If there’s any risk of breaching, hit the switch here, and they know to get the fuck out.”

You walk confidently backwards and toward the door, “if I don’t come back—assume I’m dead and don’t come looking for me.”

You spin on your heel and slip through the partially ajar door. You knew the conflict would eventually reach your doorstep, but you wish it hadn’t happened when you had so much to lose inside. Their flashlights cut through reeds of tall grass and flicker like ghosts across the lawn. They’re shouting at each other in Noreth’s native language. You’re not fluent, but you get an idea of the instruction, and you weave through the grass. Your fingers curl around the knife’s grip.

A low hum of insects buzz around your sweaty face and tall grass whispers as you move through it. You sharpen your focus. The moon illuminates the silent battlefield in a ghastly, blue-white subdued glow. You taste salt on your lips. You cling onto the memory of Simon’s warm, deep eyes. If you died here, or fucked it up, he’d never let you hear the end of it.

You catch your breath in your lungs. You attack, swift and deadly, your knife plunging wetly into your target’s chest. You vanish into the grass, crouched low, and using the light breeze to your advantage. You move with the wind, in bleached moonlight, and you strike down his partner before the others notice. The assailants approaching the front yard were easy. They spread themselves thin, they were too jumpy, and they held their rifles awkwardly. You surmised based on their gait and posture that they were newer—likely fresh recruits.

The three approaching the back entrance wouldn’t be so simple. They move cohesively with experience. You weigh your odds. You can kill one, but the other two will engage with you. If this had been any other mission, you would divert their attention slowly, pick them off using traps and tricks. However, the sands of time are pouring through your fingers, and you’ve got people inside to protect. A man you want to talk to, a child you want to raise, a friend you need to see again.

You test the weight of the throwing knife in your palm. It’s risky. But what choice do you have? These fuckers likely have reinforcements at the barn. Kaja is in danger. You grit your jaw and find the best position among swishing grass and damp, spongy earth.

You wait for the flashlight to illuminate his partner. Your knife spins in the dark, twirling, unseen and the target exclaims a short – “Ah!” as the blade sticks into the meat of his shoulder.

It’s off-mark. You leap to the second target, spry and agile. You are a weapon of death, a herald of doom. Your knife cuts across his throat in brutal efficiency and soaks your wrist in hot blood. You pivot, tucking your arm, and use the target’s body as a meat shield as they fire several rounds at you. You count the bullets.

He spasms and jerks against you as bullets whiz by and you wait for the reload. They might be experienced, but they’re spooked enough to fire all their ammunition simultaneously. You drop the body the second you hear the resounding click of an empty chamber. You draw your silenced pistol. Your last resort. Your breath catches in your lungs.

There’s only one man in front of you. You fire your shot. It goes through your target’s throat. He gurgles wetly, painfully, before falling backward. You scan the area for the threat, the missing attacker, but suddenly something hits you in the back of the skull.

Sharp and biting pain blossoms and stars dance in front of your vision. Their forearm wraps around your throat, pinning you to their chest, the muzzle of their sidearm pistol against your temple. Your time off the field has made you sloppy. Overconfident. Careless. You mentally berate yourself and plant your feet to try and throw him off before he can pull the trigger.

A bullet rings through the darkness. A torrent of hot blood and chunks of bone splatters wetly onto your cheek and side of your head. Your target collapses into you and you roughly shoulder him away. Half of his skull is missing and his brains and blood gushes over the marshland.

You look toward the house. You can’t see Ghost’s sniper scope in the darkness, but you feel it. You feel him watching. You holster your gun. You walk away from the house and toward the barn. To Kaja. To finish your hunt.

~~~~~~~~~

Ghost watches the flashlights disappear from your window. He has every intention of providing cover fire with his sniper—if you need it. He is watching you through the scope, remembering Spain, and his cold heart pangs weakly. He isn’t sure how he feels about you. He wants to be angry for keeping secrets. But, that’s bollocks, isn’t it? You both come from special ops backgrounds, from troves of classified files, and hell—his identity has been a secret for years. You don’t even know what he looks like. The kid’s got my eyes. There’s some small part of him that carries on throughout the world and you’re the only two people who know about it.

He doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being angry. You made the right call. You kept the kid—Lukas—safe. His kid. Ghost’s throat threatens to tighten. He shoves it down. The feeling smolders inside his chest. It’s not like it matters. You’ll go your separate ways once Soap is cleared to evac. Assuming everyone lives after this evening, he thinks wryly. He adjusts his hold on his sniper and breathes deeply.

A burst of gunfire crackles in the distance. He swings his scope to the swaying reeds. One of the targets have veered off into the darkness while the other fills his dead friend with bullets. He catches brief flashes of your body, hunched, before you duck from beneath cover and stand—your form exquisite and lethal. A muted flash appears before the muzzle of your gun.

The second target appears from the darkness and grapples you. Ghost holds his breath. His finger hovers over the trigger. The pistol touches your skin. He imagines it firing. He imagines your body going inert and dropping like a sack of rocks into the strangers’ arms. His jaw clenches. He has seconds to react. The targets’ face hovers next to yours.

He fires. An explosion of blood and brain and bone spews around your head. You knock the body contemptuously away and somehow manage to meet his eyes through the rifle scope. Ghost’s heart thumps painful and hard into his ribs. You’re half-covered in someone else’s blood like the final girl in a slasher horror film. He thinks of kissing you. You turn and vanish into the darkness. He releases the breath he was holding.

Samira swings into the room, hand clutching the doorframe, “Ghost.” She says, “I need you to go to the barn.” Her tone brokers no argument. Despite that, however, he still says…

“Why?”

“Kaja’s not back yet which means she didn’t escape.”

“How’d you know?”

Samira huffs, “we have a system of triggers and alarms and codes. She hasn’t signaled the all-clear.”

“Could mean she’s dead.”

Her gaze darkens, “they do not often kill women in Noreth. They make them suffer first. Go. An order, Ghost. It’s an order.”

He dislikes taking orders from her, but Samira has your trust, and that means something. And although you claim you don’t have a hierarchy at the haven, it’s clear they look to you for leadership, and Samira is your second.

His head is still fucked from everything. But he’s thankful for the clarity of battle—of conflict and fighting—it gives him something to focus on. He follows the tracks you made through the grass. The air smells like car exhaust fumes, and gun smoke, and dark, damp earth.

“Leave her alone!” Your voice jabs into his gut like a well-placed and serrated knife. Ghost moves silently through the brush. His blood is hot and pounding in his neck.

The glaring headlamps of their truck illuminates your bruised face. Your teeth glisten wet and red. There is more blood covering you, but he can’t tell what’s yours and what isn’t. Someone has you pinned to the ground, your hands behind your back, and your legs are pinned by a second body. The man in front of you drops to a crouch and speaks lowly. Ghost doesn’t hear what he says. Your gaze hardens and your lips press into a tight line.

Your eyes move past the man speaking to you. Your gaze strikes his through the blades of swaying grass and encroaching, tall weeds. Your eyes are red-rimmed and filled with vengeful tears like the oil-painting of Lucifer.

“Bring them both in!” The man pinches your jaw roughly, his tone scathing, “You will sing like a songbird for me, little viper.”

Your jaw shifts. You spit a bloody glob of salvia into his face.

“Bitch!” He yells. He back-hands you, and you head lolls sideways into the dirt, wheezing, a fresh cut blooms on your lower lip. Rage burns through him, hot and corrosive, across every limb, every nerve, until he’s certain the dry vegetation around him is going to burst into flames. He’s never wanted to tear somebody limb-from-limb before. Not ‘till this moment.

He’s shaking. He realizes it almost distantly, like he’s not inside his body, like he’s viewing everything from a sniper’s scope but he’s without his calculated, cold ease. A voice inside his head informs him of the amount of bullets he has, the target locations, and the cover the barn could provide.

Kaja’s lilting voice appears from somewhere near the back of the truck—her words are thick with phlegm and barely distinguishable—but Ghost can tell she’s begging. He can hear it in her tone, how she sobs around the broken syllables. It’s not you who will break. It’s Kaja. Young, inexperienced Kaja. Another voice inside his head tells him he needs to silence her before she blows his cover or more importantly, your cover and the safety of Lukas. There’s only one target with Kaja and his back is to the shadows. Big mistake.

He shifts into the dark, lush undergrowth. He circles around the barn. You’re still goading the leader. He suspects you’re doing it to keep the focus away from Kaja, to take her pain, because you know she’s fragile and you’re trained to take it. He hears your brusque, insulting tone and it is nearly always followed with the sharp, biting sound of his skin striking yours. His heartrate skyrockets.

He’s shaking again. He bites his lower lip, tasting copper and salt, and it forcefully yanks him back to reality. He creeps through the darkness. He strikes. His large palm covers the target’s mouth, dragging him backward into the shadows, he snaps his neck quickly and efficiently. He drags the body into the grass and approaches the truck bed where Kaja is tied with a black canvas bag over her head.

“Please!” She’s trembling. “We’re just a little farm! We’re not rebels!”

Ghost yanks the bag over her head. She meets his gaze with glossy, frightened eyes. He motions one finger to his mouth. He doesn’t have time to cut the ropes that dig into her bony, bird-like wrists. He grabs her and pulls her from the truck. The weight is shifted and the springs beneath the back tires groan and squeak.

His blood curdles with the abrupt sound of your scream when his boots hit the grass. Every instinct in him wants to—to drop Kaja and fire every bullet into the men that circle you like hungry lions. He resists. If you’re screaming, then it’s part of the act. You wouldn’t give these slimy assholes the satisfaction. He believes that.

He drags Kaja into the darkness.

“We need to go back!” She whispers harshly when they’re several minutes away from the barn, “untie me. We need to save her.”

Ghost says nothing.

<< Part Three (Final) >>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty fanfic #ghost cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfic #ghost x you #ghost simon riley imagine #ghost x y/n #ghost x female reader #ghost mw2 #ghost mw2 x you

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mariacallous · 5 months

Text

On Monday, the leadership of the Screen Actors Guild–American Federation of Television and Radio Artists held a members-only webinar to discuss the contract the union tentatively agreed upon last week with the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers. If ratified, the contract will officially end the longest labor strike in the guild’s history.

For many in the industry, artificial intelligence was one of the strike's most contentious, fear-inducing components. Over the weekend, SAG released details of its agreed AI terms, an expansive set of protections that require consent and compensation for all actors, regardless of status. With this agreement, SAG has gone substantially further than the Directors Guild of America or the Writers Guild of America, who preceded the group in coming to terms with the AMPTP. This isn’t to say that SAG succeeded where the other unions failed but that actors face more of an immediate, existential threat from machine-learning advances and other computer-generated technologies.

The SAG deal is similar to the DGA and WGA deals in that it demands protections for any instance where machine-learning tools are used to manipulate or exploit their work. All three unions have claimed their AI agreements are "historic" and "protective," but whether one agrees with that or not, these deals function as important guideposts. AI doesn't just posit a threat to writers and actors—it has ramifications for workers in all fields, creative or otherwise.

For those looking to Hollywood's labor struggles as a blueprint for how to deal with AI in their own disputes, it's important that these deals have the right protections, so I understand those who have questioned them or pushed them to be more stringent. I’m among them. But there is a point at which we are pushing for things that cannot be accomplished in this round of negotiations and may not need to be pushed for at all.

To better understand what the public generally calls AI and its perceived threat, I spent months during the strike meeting with many of the leading engineers and tech experts in machine-learning and legal scholars in both Big Tech and copyright law.

The essence of what I learned confirmed three key points: The first is that the gravest threats are not what we hear most spoken about in the news—most of the people whom machine-learning tools will negatively impact aren’t the privileged but low- and working-class laborers and marginalized and minority groups, due to the inherent biases within the technology. The second point is that the studios are as threatened by the rise and unregulated power of Big Tech as the creative workforce, something I wrote about in detail earlier in the strike here and that WIRED’s Angela Watercutter astutely expanded upon here.

Both lead to the third point, which speaks most directly to the AI deals: No ironclad legal language exists to fully protect artists (or anyone) from exploitation involving machine-learning tools.

When we hear artists talk about fighting AI on legal grounds, they’re either suing for copyright infringement or requiring tech companies to cease inputting creative works into their AI models. Neither of these approaches are effective in the current climate. Copyright law is designed to protect intellectual property holders, not creative individuals, and the majority of these infringement lawsuits are unlikely to succeed or, if they do, are unlikely to lead to enforceable new laws. This became evident when the Authors Guild failed in its copyright lawsuit against Google in 2015; and it faces similar challenges with its new suit, as outlined here.

The demand to control the ability of AI to train on artists' work betrays a fundamental lack of understanding of how these models and the companies behind them function, as we can’t possibly prevent who scrapes what in an age where everything is already ingested online. It also relies on trusting tech companies to police themselves and not ingest works they have been told not to, knowing it’s nearly impossible to prove otherwise.

Tech entities like OpenAI are black boxes that offer little to no disclosure about how their datasets work, as are all the major Big Tech players. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight for greater transparency and reform copyright protections. However, that’s a long and uncertain game and requires government entities like the US Federal Trade Commission to be willing to battle the deep-pocketed lobbyists preventing meaningful legislation against their Big Tech bosses. There will be progress eventually, but certainly not in time for this labor crisis that has hurt so many.

The absence of enforceable laws that would shackle Big Tech doesn’t make these deals a toothless compromise—far from it. There is great value in a labor force firmly demanding its terms be codified in a contract. The studios can find loopholes around some of that language if they choose, as they have in the past, but they will then be in breach of their agreed contract and will face publicly shaming lawsuits by influential and beloved artists and the potential of another lengthy and costly strike.

What is historic in these Hollywood deals is the clear statement of what the creative workforce will and won't tolerate from the corporations. Standing in solidarity behind that statement carries tremendous weight, even if it isn't fully enforceable. It sends a message to other industry unions, several of which are facing upcoming contract negotiations, and to all labor movements, that workers will not tolerate being exploited and replaced by the rapid advance of Big Tech. And it should not be lost on the AMPTP that it may soon find itself making similar demands for its own survival to the Big Tech companies, who are perfectly poised to circumvent or devour the legacy studios.

Over the weekend, there were calls for SAG members to reject the contract based on its AI stipulations. I'll be voting to ratify, as I did for the DGA and WGA agreements—not because the terms are perfect or ironclad but because the deal is meaningful and effective. And there are no practical and immediate solutions that aren’t currently addressed. It’s time to get back to work.

This is not a fight that ends with the current strike; it’s early days in the Tech Era, with both painful disruption and significant benefits to come. The SAG deal, in combination with the DGA and WGA deals, is a momentous early blow in labor’s fight for a fair and equitable place in the new world.

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vahalia-cress-ffxiv · 4 months

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Metamorphosis

The relationship with Osric was diseased. There is no divinity here—no vast happiness in mountains of wealth; carved by a Cress' grand design.

Vahalia was epicurean without shame in how she consumed. Be it things, people, space, and time -- taking and taking but when she gave it was a wealthy spread, a fount of macabre-knotted love and distorted appreciation. The most dangerous of friends – and worse – the most dedicated to punishing for betrayal.

Prickles of the finely broken shards of sapphire shifted in her hand the moment her fingers unfurled from her palm and the gritty and sharp slivers presented themself. Static and far-off voices echoed within her ear, the linkpearl nestled within the shell of her ear had been on as she heard the flying colors read aloud to her. The Captain of the Sirensong beckoning her to come to a decision.

She didn't need gifted blueprints to ships as she had always found her way to obtain such things. She didn't need to ask for permission to collect the debt owed to her by another, she would simply take what was owed to her. Several generations splintered from one another without nary a stitch to sew them back in place.

Whoever said everything had to be whole anyway?

The opposite side of the line was fond of the preaching of laurels and champions made by nothing but spoken words and less of actual deeds. No field to crawl across and claim victory over. After all what victory was there in handouts?

Vahalia knew struggle and disappointments, she knew loss and cultivated barriers built from loneliness. Sowing seeds of fear from fields of anger; of course, the tiller was none other than ambition.

What good was a mountain if not carved out by one's blood, flesh, and tears? To stand atop a monument of stone and foundations to brag about one's accomplishments when such were accomplishments by one's own determination, stubbornness and aspirations and sometimes detriment. What use was there in handed down wealth if one was not strong enough to hold it; or shoulder it for as long as one was breathing?

Festering poison, stirring within her as malice and determination. She would take all that belonged to her -- or what she perceived to be hers by birthright -- she would dismantle each vessel she came across by hand if she had to. After all, she knew how to claw and dig through the rot to reach riches.

“Put Edalene on the position and keep the pressure. Commandeer it, level the crew by any means necessary, and bring the rest to Blackwater. I’ll have someone meet you at the docks in two days to trade off on the cargo.”

A pause and then the voice signed off before the room around her faded off into silence again. Devoid stars, burned out in pools of golden honey gazed at the deep glitter of blue within her hand and it was then was discarded into a cloth nearby, low and rhythmic was the tap of her fingers on the box on her desk – a box gifted to her by Damien alongside a simple note, a note that seemed to please the Lady of the House greatly.

She would have to pen a missive soon.

There was the sound of movement in the front hall, quickly followed by the sound of hushed voices then the front door opening and closing, armored footsteps and a much louder, much firmer voice was heard through the hall. “I beg your pardon? Where?”

Osric moved through the front hall, two men from the Barracks trailing behind him whispering in hushed voices. “Enough - both of you. I dismissed this man before I left, I walked him to the edge of the property and removed him, and here the two of you are informing me that he is on the property of this estate to speak with me rather than being confined at the barracks?” He turned on his heel, grabbing both of the men by the scruff of their necks, fighting back a snarl as he moved towards the door. “Explain to me why I shouldn’t remove you while I remove him.”

“We’re…we’re just messengers, sir.”

“Incompetent, the lot of you. I told you, I don’t need bodies, I need competent fighters, and I will not tolerate this type of nonsense. You’ve shown yourself incapable of following even the simplest of orders.” Osric nodded towards the door, which one of the staff moved to open. The two men were dragged outside, their whining and complaining entirely ignored until the third individual was spotted, lingering just outside the gate - a jump that the dark-haired man was able to make easily enough, and while he landed gently, the two men he was carrying were not so fortunate, their ankles twisting painfully. He dropped them before turning his attention to the third, slamming the sole of his boot into the side of the man’s knee, grabbing his collar to hold him up at eye level for a moment.

“I told you this morning, you weren’t good enough to be part of this company. You and these two louts go crawl back to whatever hole you came from. If I see you again a lame leg will be the least of your concerns. Do I make myself clear?”

Without waiting for an answer, the man was rather unceremoniously dropped and Osric made the jump back over the gate to the front door, closing it with a bit more force than necessary and taking a deep breath before realizing that the office was occupied and the estate wasn’t as empty as he’d believed it to be.

He leaned his head into the room curiously for a moment, offering a small nod from the doorway when he saw the room's occupant, “Vahalia, welcome back.” His gaze shifted to the box briefly, curious, but not enough to ask questions for the time being.

The voices and chill from outside in the hall had broken Vahalia from her musing and penmanship along the parchment she had seen to, eyes scanning towards the door. Part of her silently missed the warmth of Thavnair. How could one not when pitted against the biting cold of Ishgard?

Sighing and seemingly agitated, her utensil lowered and Vahalia appraised the entrance, “Quite the nonsense happening. Has anyone ever told you that you never shoot the messenger?” She spoke, eyes turning back to her task at hand, fingers elegantly working the pen into a fine script. There had been a small bite in her words, nothing of which she chose to rectify as was typically the way with her. Unapologetic through and through, never mincing her words.

“Dare I even ask what transpired?”

Blue eyes snapped back to Vahalia from their momentary focus on the box as he stepped into the office, “Culling the herd, if you will.”

“Par for the course with you as of late. People aren't born into perfection, even if such a thing were to exist. There is a reason why training exists, people hone their skill over time, it might do well to adopt some patience and be mindful of that..” She reminded him, mildly annoyed at the display she had partially witnessed, at least the conversation of such, sound carried rather well through an old manor.

The bite was noted, it would be difficult not to, but he took it in stride not allowing his thoughts to linger on it over long. Instead, he exhaled sharply, hands clasping behind his back as he moved to stand behind one of the chairs settled before her desk.

“It’s a straightforward enough tale. Recruits have been put through a series of assessments as they’ve been brought in so their current skill level can be determined. It’s also to help determine who may be an issue as they move forward - can they follow orders or not? One such individual, who felt that following orders was not a necessity, was outside. I’d dismissed him earlier today with the order that if he returned he was to be confined at the barracks and I would deal with him when I returned tomorrow. Rather than follow that order, because they were ‘friends’ the two individuals or ‘messengers’ chose to lead this individual to the estate to ‘inform’ me that he’d returned and wanted to speak with me. So all three of them have shown me, repeatedly, that they cannot follow even the simplest of orders.”

He scowled, his brow furrowing, “...and I won’t tolerate it. The insubordination alone is infuriating. I don’t need bodies to fill spaces, I’m not looking to have fodder in a fight. This is to be a legitimate force to be reckoned with - and while I can teach an orphan from the Brume how to wield a lance, and having someone who can improvise within a battle is needed from time to time - Patience for someone learning a new skill is one thing. Patience for someone willfully ignoring what they’ve been ordered to do…I will not tolerate people who cannot follow even the most basic of orders and are going to endanger the lives of the people around them. Which reminds me…”

He turned, stepping out in the hall and calling for Wyland quickly, the two speaking in low tones for a moment before he stepped back into the office. “I’d meant to have a carriage called to pick up those three and deliver them to the barracks to be confined and displayed. I don’t imagine they’ve hobbled far.” He glanced across the desk at her. “That’s what had transpired…and now dare I ask - what’s in the box?”

“Or you could have gone the more tactful route and simply converse with the man to have seen what he wanted to speak to you about.” Vahalia paused and the writing utensil lowered when Osric asked about the box. It was small enough to sum up a few scattered ilm by a few ilm.

“There were conversations had well before the man was dismissed. I will not endanger the entire group because one individual feels he is entitled to the opportunity to do as he pleases.” He shifted, arms loosely crossing over his chest.

“Nothing you would care to stomach but if you must know it's a gift from Damien.” Her eyes lingered on the box a moment before setting them to Osric briefly then back to her penmanship along the parchment as she gave the piece space to dry, “Proof that the man means business and has this family's best interest at heart, specifically Valeria.”

There had been a momentary pause and Vahalia set the letter aside, once more seeming to afford Osric with her time, “He took whatever actions necessary to get a point across. What is that saying you always recited? ‘There is nothing I wouldn't do for family’?” Once more Vahalia hummed and she laced her fingers together and tucked them under her chin, elbows at the desk face, “Get used to it. He'll join the family before long, he's proven his place well enough for me to take him seriously. The man has grit, I'll give him that.”

Has this family’s best interest at heart or his own, I wonder. His jaw clenched, but only for a brief moment. Becoming emotional had only served to complicate matters in every other conversation - it wouldn’t help anything here, he was well aware of that. “It’s not just a saying, but yes - there is nothing that I would not do for those that are important to me. Though I am aware the execution has not been ideal as of late.”

“Ah yes, nothing you wouldn’t do. But sit on a couch while your wife handles the threat –” she gave him a knowing look, not going further on the matter but she didn’t break the pointed gaze and noted the tension he held around his neck and jaw. The way the flesh in the neck moved and both the orbicularis and buccinator flexed ever so briefly – how easy it would have been to just cease the movement entirely with a swift, hard jab of the pen into…

His gaze narrowed before shifting to the large clock behind her for a moment - nothing would be gained by rehashing previous conversations and events, he’d learned that well enough - gathering his thoughts before moving back down his expression carefully neutral, “You don’t expect it will be a terribly long courtship then?”

Vahalia blinked, attention focused once again, “Depends on them I suppose, but the overall goal of courtship is marriage, so they will be married at some point I suspect.” a sigh loosed past deep crimson lips and Vahalia’s head tilted faintly, “What is it you want Osric? The last time we spoke I was quite solid on my stance.”

“So you were. And I believe I was quite clear in that the three stated options were not options at all.” He shifted, leaning his hip against the chair. “As for what I want - there are a great number of things that I want, quite a few that I recognize that I will never have simply because they are unobtainable for a variety of reasons. I want to see the militia at the barracks become a fighting force to be reckoned with. I want to be able to trust those around me to some extent again. But the most important want I have is a desire to repair what is here.” He motioned with one hand between the two of them.

“If you say so.” she retorted and she blinked once more shaking her head as she looked at Osric, “For someone who nit-picks the small things and enjoys yelling at the hired help you really have nothing to bring to the table in way of your own solutions, hmm? Aside from criticizing someone else.” She stood from the desk and made her way around the side of the large piece, her right hand slid a few papers across in Osric’s general direction, “I’m sure we can converse without having to mention the Barracks, I’m well aware that is your focus right now. Not quite sure about the trusting part but us…” she mimicked the motion between herself and him that he had made moments before, “ – its a farce. There is nothing to repair, Osric.”

The hand that Vahalia had along the papers lifted, “I’ve been doing this all for a long time, I never needed a partner but was a choice I made for the sake of the House in thinking that the House needed one. I thought you had those qualities and we both know you didn’t, and still don’t. This isn’t personal, it’s business. It has been business since day one.”

“It just happened to be convenient to find someone who was willing to give up their name and merge their house and assets with yours.”

A shoulder lifted in a bit of a shrug as Vahalia meandered towards the pitcher of cool water to pour herself a glass, “I’m prepared to give you the Barracks – or the old Slater Estate back – as well as see to the gil matched in whatever you arrived with. Your staff and assets are yours to take as you wish. We can separate and go our separate ways, co-parent….do whatever it is these people do these days. All it would require is our signatures and exchange of deeds and funds.”

“Or…” she continued, “I can forcefully separate from you, keep all the assets out of spite. Both have the same outcome but that depends on you how much you insist on drawing it out since I know you’re stubborn. When we signed our ‘marriage’ certificate, we had witnesses present but neither Wyland or Valeria signed the documentation. In truth, the ‘marriage’ was not witnessed for all that the proceedings detailed.”

Leveling her gaze to Osric, her fingers swathed gently over her pen as she then held it out in Osric’s direction, “Your choice. I’m not about to make any of this easy.”

He ignored the offered pen, the arms crossed over his chest tightening as he pushed away from the chair he had been leaning against. “I told you before and I’ll say it again, no. You say that I’ve failed to meet my end of the bargain - well you indicated that I’d be taken care of, that I would want for nothing even knowing that I was going into a loveless marriage. A farce as you put it. That hasn’t been the case, has it?”

His eyes narrowed toward the papers on her desk for a long moment before his gaze shifted back over to her. “But that farce certainly produced the heirs you needed…didn’t it?”

A hand reached up, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled slowly keeping his emotions under control rather than letting them boil to the surface. “I will not walk away from this willingly, Vahalia. I’m too invested to simply throw up my hands at the first barrier that presents itself.”

Of course, she waited until it was apparent Osric wasn’t about to take the offer and her hand lowered, “And as I told you before, and I’ll say it again, I’m not hard of hearing. I know what you’ve said in the past.” she shifted slightly, “My end of the bargain said nothing about eternity and I’ve stayed quite true to my offer and then some, I think my patience and grace has gone quite a ways in the stretch of these months we’ve had.”

Vahalia snerked defiantly, “Oh congratulations! You figured out where to put your prick at the right time. You’re not a miracle worker, Osric, any man could have done the same. These babies aren’t being born out of love, I would have ended up the same with any other man sans the Cress name but I’d probably have gotten a better tradeoff than I currently am faced with. You say no and you’d rather subject me to this futile nonsense and waste our time for the rest of our lives while making a mockery of not only this House but me. We both know that you need me far more than I need you. Does having the Cress name make you feel like a somebody? Hmm, what is it? Has little Osric caught feelings, is that what keeps you hanging on by a thread? Hoping that something will blossom and flourish so long as you endure and hope that it all pays off?”

Osric stood, stoic - a low static noise ringing at the edge of his consciousness as she went on and on, hitting every topic with seemingly practiced ease. A familiar feeling teased up the length of his spine as his jaw clenched and he tried to focus on anything besides the nagging sensation at the back of his skull.

“I have simply realized a poor investment and sought to make it right by cutting our losses. There is no reason why we cannot come to a middle ground but you continue to refuse. So now, You’re holding me in a relationship I don’t want, not even as a front for society’s sake. But, if you’d rather make me your enemy Osric then so be it. You might not walk away from this willingly, but I will.”

His gaze darkened, the low noise getting louder with each statement she made - what initially started as a static noise was now a ringing, getting louder and louder with each passing moment. Muscles tensed, the edges of his vision going red as not only this conversation but the previous conversation, the conversation during the Starlight celebration, during tea with Hakan and Valeria, the confrontation with Carrera…they all came flooding back at once, and something…something in the back of his head snapped.

“This isn’t a barrier, this isn’t even a wall. Us not being able to agree on dogs or cats is a barrier, Osric. This isn’t. I can’t stand you or the sight of you, your nonsensical tactics and the way you handle people and needle out instantly without trying to find tact and patience anything is a problem and you can’t change the nature of people. This is why you fall short because this environment isn’t for you. Day by day and with each interaction that annoyance grows and I’d rather rid myself entirely of this rather than simply put up with it for the rest of my life. And you are trying to weasel out of the consequences of your actions or in a lot of cases, inaction.”

“ENOUGH!” He shoved the chair that’d been in front of him out of the way, as he moved to her, pulling her away from the desk and pinning her to the nearby wall, hands held overhead. “You want to list every fucking flaw I have? You think I’m not aware of them already, Vahalia? You can’t stand me? I didn’t need your name to feel like somebody, Vahalia. I may have hated my name, but it suited me just fine. If I wanted to make a fucking mockery out of you then I would have by going out and finding a mistress and having a bastard child, but I haven’t done that. No, I’ve been here, trying to see to the needs here.”

A few ilms bigger than she was in height but that didn’t seem to phase her as Osric, unknowingly, was now faced with an uneven match before him, an action, a full range of motion which instantaneously brought about consequences. A fire of hate blazed in Vahalia’s eyes, “I haven’t even started and I’m sure even then I’d find several more to hate yourself for that not even you couldn’t find. If your name suited you just fine then why didn’t you keep it instead of throwing it away like a stain?”

He gripped her chin and tilted her face up to face him, tightening the hold on the hands overhead. “If you want me gone so fucking badly, why not just kill me and have it over and done with?”

She nearly laughed and craned as close as she could up to him with her jaw within his grasp, her canine bared, a smirk pinching into her cheek just under his fingers where a dimple usually formed, “Be careful what you wish for. Now get your fucking hands off me or it will be the last time you have hands.”

“What I wish for?” Every muscle was coiled tight, the scoff that came from him mixed with a snarl. “When has it ever mattered what I wished for? You bid me to allow you to consume every ilm of me and so I did. And it wasn’t enough. Everything you have asked of me I have done, have tried to do, and it wasn’t enough, will never be enough. Consumed and discarded.”

He released his hold on her, turning and kicking the chair he’d pushed aside into the wall with no small amount of force, his form all but shaking in rage and pain, though he refused to acknowledge the latter, his chest constricting painfully.

“What does it matter if I care for you, which I never bothered to hide? I knew nothing would ever come of it - you made that blatantly clear. And why didn’t I keep my name - because foolishly I believed that in setting it aside and in abolishing my house to join it with yours we could build and create something greater and move forward from what our parents did and the mistakes they made. Because there were opportunities to move past my fucking past and leave that behind and make what once been an anchor useful. Because, Fury forbid, it helped you and I-,” he caught himself, his chest aching, but not from the scar, “...for whatever reason care for you…even if all it’s going to bring me is ruin.”

“You've been ruining yourself, not me.” She sniped venomously, “No one else Holds Osric back but Osric. The sooner you stop blaming others around you and move past the shit weighing you down, the better off you'll be. You hang on to shit like it's the only thing going for you because you're too afraid to find and explore other things that complete you. Instead, you let your trauma and hatred define you and be your entire personality instead of embracing the true you. Because heavens forbid you be anything else but pristine, or say the right things. You'll find life is a lot more enjoyable when you stop pandering to people who expect perfection and benevolence all the time.” Vahalia stepped away from the wall and instinctively her fingers felt around her wrist. She could feel the familiar churn and roil within her chest cavity, the very same that was both shield and sword – Creature begging to be released from his finely crafted prison by way of how she felt the onyx at her throat thrum with tasteless energy.

His gaze snapped to her, narrowing for a long moment. Wasn’t that exactly the expectation - perfection, that he know exactly what to say and what to do at all times? That he say and do just the right thing in the right moment? Weren’t his failings the reason they were having this conversation? But by trying to do those things he was somehow holding himself back?

“Caring for someone doesn’t fix mistakes, caring for me doesn’t put you in the position the House needs from you that I’ve stipulated has been required and a necessity from day one. You either can or you can’t, and being mean isn’t the same as being tough. We should look at every situation as needing careful tact, especially when it comes to Ishgard and society here. The workers you yell at and belittle, the folk who need little attitude adjustments they’re all connected to the city and word travels fast. Before long finding anyone willing to work for the House or possibly be a business partner will be increasingly difficult because of your actions. Grace, tact, and meticulously calculating things are what is needed in this position and you miss the mark on all three. You think solving an issue is throwing your feelings out there and butting your head against the issue until you get a desired outcome or someone gives in to your word vomit of how slighted you are or have become. The sooner you can look past the grime and shit you think makes you who you are, is when you find your true self. Consuming you was to be just that but like your sister, you both would sooner see yourselves as martyrs.”

Vahalia lifted her chin, almost in a defiant manner, “These are the things I have been trying to tell you time and time again and it has not sunk in. Either you are oblivious or in denial but this has not been the first time I have expressed this.”

Osric again crossed his arms over his chest not in a defensive manner, but rather in an attempt to ward off the tightening in his chest that wouldn’t seem to ease, his jaw clenched tightly. “I’ve no interest in being a martyr, and I didn’t say that you were ruining me. I’m well aware of how Ishgardian society functions - I know how people love to talk. The workers I spoke to time and time again before I had to raise my voice, the recruits I had to speak to over and over again before I had to make the choice to dismiss them? Those were calculated decisions, ones that were not made on a whim or lightly. And there are far more satisfied workers and recruits than there are those whom I have had to dismiss and those whom I had to have words with. I have heard and tried to take to heart everything that you have said - I am trying to make changes and move forward and trying to fix the mistakes that have been made.”

“I need fewer excuses and more methodical action.” Vahalia spoke, her hand lowering to smooth out the front of her attire and naturally stopping at her abdomen before lacing with her other hand, “Perhaps when you start feeling less sorry for yourself you will find yourself. It’s a shame you can speak to me like this and have some semblance of confidence yet you are entirely incapable with others.”

With a graceful swish of the fabric of Vahalia’s skirts, the woman had made her way towards the entrance, “I have an appointment to get to.” There was a brief pause as she allowed him a moment to speak but then also found it as an opportune moment to add something, “You would not be the first man to care about me, but I think you need to ask yourself why that is and make sure it’s not just blind following. When you are able to come to the end of the road and face-to-face with an explanation, you and I can speak about it.”

“It’s not blind following if it’s a route I actively choose and want to pursue.” He moved towards the entrance of the office, posture straight, but tense. “Go to your appointment, Vahalia. You’ve made it quite clear that this conversation is over and I have plenty to consider.” His gaze cut to her for a moment, his expression carefully neutral.

“You missed my meaning entirely,” she noted and there was a devoid expression though a hint of disappointment that he chose to take her words with offense. Being far from an incapable intellectual, Vahalia wasn’t completely oblivious to what admiration looked like – perhaps even more on account of others. She had seen it before in the eyes of men, she had also been the bearer of bad news for them and perhaps Osric was simply smart enough to save himself from that disappointment and let-down.

Her eyes washed over the ex-dragoon not too far off from her person – perhaps best left that way – how oddly militant and solider-esque he chose to make himself, the stance itself presenting to her that it was perhaps a defense he was building up for himself while the war within him coiled around parts of him, knife-like with everything it touched upon.

The sound of her heels touched upon the stone flooring and without any addendum, Vahalia made her way to keep her appointment with Doctor Aethwyn.

Brief Mention(s): @damien-gray-ffxiv - @edalene-slater-ffxiv - @dawn-aethwyn

#Stories #Blurbs #Collab writing #{ Of Ravens and Lances }

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thesituation · 7 months

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elaborate on the cosmology crisis pls?

YES OKAY so as a disclaimer i am a history major and in no way do i have a deep understanding of cosmology or physics or astronomy etc., it’s just like a special interest of mine. so my understanding of the crisis in cosmology is that there is currently no positive way to measure the expansion rate of the universe (if u didn’t know, space is expanding because of dark energy, which is just a placeholder term for the catalyst force for cosmic inflation, which we also have very little understanding of. all you gotta know is the fabric of space is stretching and shit is getting farther apart [unless gravity or another force is able to overpower it, like the case w the milky way and andromeda]) so the question is basically “how do we measure the expansion rate and quantify it to make predictive models of the future of the universe” (cause how the universe ends is anybody’s guess) and right now there’s two methods, im not sure of exactly HOW each one works in depth but one method involves the cosmic microwave background (CMB), which is a snapshot of the universe at around 500 thousand years old? i think? VERY early after the big bang, basically. and the snapshot was taken by scanning the background radiation of the universe, which is left over from the big bang itself. it’s basically a blueprint of the radiation let off when the universe came into existence. the other method is measuring the blink rate of distant stars called cepheids, and i believe the disparity in their blink rate can indicate how fast we’re moving away from them & the numbers can be crunched to isolate just the expansion rate of space.

SO all that being said, the crisis ITSELF is that these two methods produce vastly different numbers. the numbers each method produces are getting father apart as technology advances, rather than closer, which means one of these is probably wrong. the crisis has been heightened recently because JWST took a better, crystal clear measurement of cepheids, and the data was so incredible that it’s practically ruled out cepheids as being the “problem” method. and this is very exciting. if the CMB is the issue, that will uproot SO MUCH of our understanding of the universe!! that would shake fucking everything up!! it’d be a complete paradigm shift and that would be THRILLING but it’s also important to not take it to mean the CMB is definitively flawed, because there’s possibly other properties of the universe we haven’t discovered yet that can answer for the discrepancy, or there’s an issue with our data collection on it, etc etc. but it’s extremely exciting to think about!!

#sorry for the novel. i do love talking about cosmology so so much #answers

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applecoreart · 3 months

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+BST Project: I designed the abandoned apartment Crane is hiding out in using references pulled from properties in NYC via real estate sites. I mashed together apartment layouts I liked and made a blueprint. Still, it’s difficult to grasp scale and proportion in a flat blueprint, especially when drawing backgrounds, so I made a rough 3D blueprint in CSP using primitives and a character model scaled to Crane’s 6'4" height as reference.

It's really helpful to see the whole setting like this and quickly test out camera positions. I’m excited to build more of these for other locations in the future– I had a lot of fun and they’re really satisfying to build and look at :)

Posting just some WIP teaser images for now so people can see what I’ve been up to. At some point I plan to use this model to paint an above shot blueprint with all the textures, features, and furniture as a reference for painting backgrounds.

#BSTproject #RA fanstuffs #had a lot of fun working on this #reminded me of building houses and towns in Lego as a kid #also working with primitive shapes made me reconsider learning Blender for this sort of thing-- less of a learning curve

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butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway · 1 year

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I decided I wanted to read a little something extra today and something told me at least one of you would want to read it too.

Afrofuturist Abolitionists of the Americas

Anarchism / Intersectionality / Decolonization

Feedback Loop

1. Anarchism

2. Intersectionality

3. Decolonization

For Anarkatas, Black Intersectional Feminism and Decolonization aren’t optional ideological stances. Together they are instrumental in addressing the complexities of systemic ableism, cis hetero patriarchy, transmisogynoir, Racism, anti-indigeneity, imperialism, colonialism, poverty, class, land, property, prison abolition, cultural theft, exploitation and capitalism, providing a map to areas of need and a course of action respectively. Informing and informed broadly by the principles of Anarchism and guided more specifically by our own Black anarchic traditions, the centering of these struggles and analyses in tangible ways should form the core of our focus and efforts.

1. Anarchism

This is the first filter we will apply to a set of conditions in order to arrive at a course of action. Anarchism is now understood to encompass all anti-racist, anti-authoritarian, anti-state, anti oppression etc struggles but the core tenets of anarchism (anti authoritarianism, anti statism, horizontalism, decentralization, mutual aid) are routinely idealized and presented in a uniformly colorblind, universalist manner. Universalism as conceived by those locked within the white identity construct can never truly be universal, and it could be argued that the urge to universalize phenomena is itself a protective mechanism of the white identity construct. In any event, anarchism gives us the rough blueprint for the outcome we want and pitfalls to steer clear of. Anarchism in this sense is an ideal. But it can’t be one size fits all. Next, we have to compare the ideal to what we actually see. To do this we need a tool with which to analyze the material conditions. That tool is Intersectionality.

2. Intersectionality

Our second filter is intersectional analysis. Intersectionality, coined and illumined by Kimberle Censhaw and particularly the Black feminist identity politics of the Combahee River Collective grew out of a desire to reconcile Marxism with the unique experiences of Black women. Like old school anarchism, Marxism provided a rough blueprint for the structures of class struggle under simpler conditions; the most oppressed were in the position to see that it needed a serious upgrade.

Intersectionality is a microscope.

It allows us to analyze any given situation on a structural, multidimensional level and steer to the locus of the most compounded oppressions. In this way, we can attack the monster closer to the source, and through the perspectives and leadership of the intersectionally oppressed, especially Black women, provide adequate aid to the largest swath of people, starting with those who need it most. Intersectional analysis is indispensable in conflict resolution, resource allocation, navigating interpersonal relationships, and representation to name just a few areas of applicability. It should be apparent that while intersectional analysis certainly chips away at the universalized flatness of barebones anarchist and Marxist doctrine, anarchist and Marxist analysis are better for it; in fact, intersectional analysis strengthens both Marxism and Anarchism.

Now that we’ve analyzed the conditions through an intersectional lens, we must decide on a course of action. That course of action is the path of Decolonization. Decolonization is central to Anarkata praxis.

3. Decolonization

Decolonization is our third analytical filter, our praxis, and our immediate material goal all in one.

Through analysis of the material conditions, we have seen that the only remedy is complete abolition of the existing structures of oppression. We have seen that the relationship between oppressor and oppressed and the planet is intolerable, untenable, irreconcilable, and unreformable and to make room for the world we want to see, the dream of a world which isn’t built on our oppression, we have to sweep away the old one. This is the meaning of decolonization. Decolonization isn’t a return; we can never return. What’s left is to take what is ours now and build the world we want to live in now. We do this by any means necessary. By ceasing to perform for the gaze of whites or provide more free labor to oppressors. By learning our radical history. The validity of the white cis hetero patriarchal identity construct (the “norm”) is called into question, ridiculed and mocked. Our own identities are celebrated in their multiplicity. All accepted norms are questioned and placed in a decolonization context. These are decolonizing imperatives that arise from the ontological needs of the oppressed and can in no way be encroached upon or dictated by colonizers. Decolonization isn’t a polite or abstract process; to the oppressor, it’s rude, inopportune, adversarial, contrary, mean, emotional, unintelligible, etc. To the oppressed every drop of scorn heaped on the oppressor in our name is a show of love. Decolonization demands fearlessness beneath the white supremacist gaze. Decolonization is a constant practice, requiring a radical posture. Full Decolonization is militant, often bloody.

By now, our filters have skewed the picture of our anarchist city on the hill. The edges are blurrier, the walls have revealed some cracks. The world we wish existed is far in the distance. The real world has thrown us a few curveballs (racism, sexism, ableism, racial power dynamics etc) to contend with, things we have to attack structurally as well before we can begin to have the world we want. Different times, places, and populations have different material conditions and we need to meet people who want to build where they are and work with the tools that are at our disposal.

“Decolonization never takes place unnoticed, for it focuses on And fundamentally alters being and transforms the spectator crushed to a nonessential state into a privileged actor, captured tn a virtually grandiose fashion by The spotlight of history. It infuses a new rhythm, specific to a new generation of (human), with a new language and a new humanity. Decolonization is truly the creation of new (humans).

But such a creation cannot be attributed to a supernatural power: The “thing” colonized becomes a (human) Through the very process of liberation

— Frantz Fanon

(https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/anonymous-a-i-d)

#book club #literature #anarchist #black anarchist #black literature #afrofuturism #decolonization #combahee my darlings it looks like you'll be up for tomorrow's reading #frantz fanon

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brightsun-and-darkmidnight · 7 months

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The Angel and The Unholy

I want to thank @earthlyangelbby for beta reading this. All mistakes are still my own.

Chapter 2 - Surface Knowledge

Summary... A little in Eddie's perspective to show how well the Carrier family has been accepted into Hawkins. As well as the first tutor session between Eddie and Victoria.

I hope you enjoy and please let me know if you liked this at all.

.....

Eddie looked over at Victoria, not being able to help himself.

She was smiling, talking with a few others. Eddie wondered if there was anyone she didn’t talk to because everyone would. The band geeks, science nerds, cheerleaders, jocks, and even the ones who partied. She talked to all who crossed her path, especially people who she could help. Some of the people who talked to her were others who were enrolled in tutoring. Mrs. O’Donnell spoke highly of her and maybe she could help him.

Maybe he could learn more about her too…

Victoria was sitting with the group of band geeks right now…Talking just as animatedly with Robin Buckley about something with that radiant, trance inducing, gorgeous, perfect smile…

Then Eddie watched as Nancy Wheeler asked her a question and then Victoria smiled as she gathered her things. They moved towards the doors of the cafeteria room. Nancy holding a sheet of paper to her. The answer was clear what that paper was when Victoria grabbed her red folder she kept specifically for food orders to give to her mother, Sylvia, and grandmother, Echo.

Dustin tapped Mike’s arm frantically. “Is she talking to your sister?”

Mike spoke quickly, “is she ordering more cookies?!-”

Dustin was up and pushing Mike towards them. “Gogogogo!”

Eddie watched the two freshmen rush towards Victoria and Nancy, their eyes hopeful and quickly talking over Nancy who looked annoyed at the interruption. Victoria laughed, the sound reaching Eddie’s ears and making him want to smile. She nodded to the young boys and they cheered unashamed.

Gareth mumbled, “think they will share with us again?”

Eddie silently hoped to get another taste of the cookies. No one could describe the amazing way the food tasted because it tasted out-of-this-world good.

The Carrier family was quickly, lightspeed fast, making a positive name for themselves.

The brother, Andy, a fucking mircale worker as the towns new handy man that could fix anything. He had a quick solution to nearly every problem, making him the new ‘first to call’ for any issue. If he could get his hands on something that broke, he could fix it. He stopped to help people whose car broke down on the side of the road and tried to at least mend the issue so they could get home. He could fix the hardware of any appliance.

He proved his skills in blueprints and constructing houses on their own property.

The house that the zombie boy lived at, that was where the new family lived. Andy completely changed the property and used only a few contractors, choosing to do the work mostly between himself and the family. Added a second story to the house, installed a greenhouse, renovated some space for cooking purposes and food storage.

Mike and Dustin were there a few times to pick up an order or few with Nancy and they couldn’t stop talking about how much the property had changed in the short time they lived there.

All of the family members have proven to be self reliant, never asked for help but ready to do anything to help others, they were all compassionate and selfless.

As well as righteous.

The head of the family? Mr. Carrier. He was a lawyer, and a damn good one. Hardly lost a case.

They were the perfect family…

All Eddie had was his uncle Wyan and a bad reputation from his father. Known as the TOWN freak for his taste of music, and hobbies. Dealt drugs for his money that already got him a criminal record. Third time trying to pass senior year… So he was perplexed as to why he had the extreme fascination with her. He wondered why the hell he signed the paper for tutoring but it just felt right. It felt like his chance to learn more about her. The idea was stupid as shit. All because she knew he suffered academically enough for a teacher to push tutoring onto him.

Excellent grades must be a part of the demand within the family because Victoria was not at the school long, almost a month, and tested amazingly enough to be accepted into the tutoring program. Teachers loved Victoria and her sister, Natalia.

While it seemed the family was settling in for the foreseeable future, Eddie was sure Victoria would leave. She seemed like the type that had a bigger life than a simple small town. Get a fancy degree and be off to whatever perfect dream job she wanted.

Eddie dreamed of getting out of this small town, and hit it off big with his band, and experience all the crazy and amazing shit that rockstars did. He wouldn’t be the freak of the town, he would be adored by his fans for being the metal head he was.

Victoria was welcomed by all, helped all.

Eddie brought in his little lost sheep and gave them understanding to embrace who they were. Nerd and weirdness completely accepted by him. He took every chance to try to prove to the students of Hawkins High that stereotypes and people in those confined little boxes were hiding pieces of themselves. Vital pieces that would fester until they exposed themselves to the so called friends of school, only for them to run away and abandon friendship. Either way, most of these people would never see the other as soon as they got the diploma. Off to college or a new location for a fresh start.

The bell rang and maybe tutoring could be the fresh start he needed.

He thought of one word with a snort. Doubtful..

Eddie went to his locker to grab the notebook for biology class with Mrs. O'Donnell. He hated this class. Learning about life, only to then do the disgusting dissection later on this year. He couldn’t stand it. People call him a freak and a satanist while he chooses to skip class during that lesson, all while everyone else is excited to dig around in something dead.

Eddie wondered if Victoria would participate in that. She seemed way too nice for something insanely cruel.

Victoria was in her usual seat near the front of the class so Eddie sat in the back. For some reason he hoped for something different but he wasn’t surprised.

Victoria couldn’t even look at him. That actually hurt somehow because she was nice to everyone else… The note he passed to her yesterday was used as the bookmark for his notebook. He read it over as Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice became background noise… Victoria really did seem to give him the same kindness everyone else received. He knew she would have to talk to him during tutoring, she would have to talk to him because how else was he going to learn from her?

For once. He was looking forward to being in the school longer than he needed to. He was going to probably make an idiot of himself, the fact he was thrown into tutoring by a teacher was probably enough… He sighed, holding the note before tucking it away and attempted to take notes.

—-

Victoria bumped her forehead against the locker. The supplies she needed for the tutoring sessions today in her bag hanging off of her shoulder. She knew she had to get to room 203, however… She knew in about an hour, she would be sitting next to Edward Munson.

“I should just go home…”

Natalia scoffed, “call in sick to work when everyone has seen you in good health the rest of the day? Sounds believable.”

“When are you ever help?”

“I help by not sugar coating shit. Shit is shit. It does not change if you try to polish it, just makes it worse to deal with later.”

Victoria grumbled, “Go home.”

“Yeah. I’m going before it gets dark… When are you done today?”

Victoria sighed, throwing her back into the locker… “I should be done around six. Dad knows to pick me up.”

“Good. Should be enough time for you to get ready for tonight.”

“Yeah. I hope I can get some answers tonight. I have offered a lot this last month, even more so within the last week.”

“I noticed. Yours is rivaling Grandmother’s…”

“I got to go.. Get this over with. I need the money anyway.”

“I’ll check in on how things went in a few months.” Natalia winked as she rounded her belly. Crackling in laughter and skipped out of the way as Victoria was going to hit her.

Victoria focused on her sister, felt her energy, then projected the sharp pinch she inflicted on herself to her sister.

Natalia yelped and rubbed her arm. She turned and flipped Victoria the bird. “I’ll tell dad!”

“Not if you want to keep the unfortunate series of events happening to the kid who picked on Max a secret.”

Natalia huffed as she walked away.

Leaving Victoria alone, groaned as she turned around. Heading through the halls to room 203, where Nate sat, starting the homework already. He really struggled with math but Victoria was happy he was trying. Now if he would stop trying to ask her for tutoring somewhere else other than the school, that would be greatly appreciated.

When the time was getting closer to the hour being up he noticed.. “I know that my time is over for this week, is there any way that I could get some extra time. Study at my place, maybe?”

“I have others I tutor and it is easier if I have one location. I only get 3 hours for each person a week.” Victoria got her planner out and the paper for signatures after each session, her proof for payment. “As always, sign here. Then you can schedule for next week.”

Nate signed and filled three separate times for next week. Then wrote something else largely and circled it a few times. “I’m throwing a party on halloween. I’d love to see you there. Booze and all that fun stuff.”

Victoria looked at how he filled every block for that day. In ink. Her mouth opened for a moment as she tried to think of what to say, calmly. “Uh..”

Nate was heavy into partying, and fun stuff meant drugs and whatever else happened between the impaired. Victoria has been to parties before but she didn’t find them all that admirable. Especially because there was always someone intoxicated flirting with her or even putting their hands on her.

Knowing she had a fated waiting for her she never wanted to entertain anyone else. It was a common thought between many of those who had fated that it was almost like stealing another’s love life. Some people look down on those who entertain others. They call those people greedy and unfaithful because they have their person out in the world waiting for them. Even in cases of casual sex it was still looked down on. Sometimes people catch feelings regardless of the talk of “no emotions.”

In rare cases, a casual hook up could become obsessed with and jealous of the fated pair… It has ended in death often enough to be taught as warnings. Often very intricately woven with the sex talk because children outside of a fated pair have happened.

Nate’s question pulled her out of the horror stories she has heard. “Do you drink?”

She enjoyed a drink occasionally, it gave her a little relaxation. “Not often.”

However, at parties it gave her a look into the truth of some people, something about alcohol brings the ugly heads of truth out in people. Made digging for secrets easier.

“I’ll have a lot supplied, and lots of people will show up.”

A weakened mind was easy to manipulate with telepathy.

Victoria offered a smile, she could use that time to dig around. “I will try to make it.”

Nate smiled largely after a moment of realizing there was a glimmer of hope. “If you need help picking out a costume, I could help. Get you into something, cute.”

Victoria took the chance to get out if it was going to be a party like that. “Thanks for the offer but if costumes are a requirement, then I’m out.”

“Then costumes are optional.”

She laughed as humorsly as she could. “You changed your mind quick.”

She put her planner off to the side as she closed it. Then looked at the time then the door where Edward stood. She saw how he looked at her, confusion still evident in his eyes even though he looked at her with awe. Maybe he was just as confused as she was about him.

Why were they paired together?

Nate spoke and pulled her out of her thoughts. “Just want your beautiful face there.”

Edward's eyes changed, anger dancing in his narrowed eyes.

Victoria turned towards Nate. “You do need to go, my next person is here.”

“I don’t believe it, Munson is getting tutoring this year. Is the new tutor worth feeling like an idiot?”

Victoria replied quickly, professionally. “If I truly make you feel like an idiot, then I am not doing my job properly. I apologize for any reason you have come to this conclusion on your own. I will put in a referral for you to be switched to someone better suited.”

Nate scoffed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I want you to have the best chance at passing this year. That chance is clearly with someone who won’t make you feel terribly about yourself. I am sorry for anything I have done wrong and will see what your options are for another tutor. Have a good rest of your day, Nate.” Victoria offered a smile but she knew it did not reach her eyes because they had the irritation of protective anger burning in them. "I will try to make it to your party."

Nate huffed, leaving with his things.

Victoria gestured to the seat beside her. “Please sit. As I said in our note, I don’t judge. I apologize if he made you feel bad in any way. I won’t tolerate that at all.”

Edward shrugged, “Nah. It’s okay. Third attempt in senior year so I hear it all the time.”

Victoria looked at him, seeing him try to look unaffected but she could see some unease. He kept moving his eyes, rubbing them. She said, “My eyes get irritated sometimes too, try to blink rapidly to attempt to produce some tears for lubrication.”

He looked at her odd so she continued on the right path of conversation. “But, anyway. School isn’t for everyone, nothing is wrong with that.” She pulled out Eddie’s test with a big red F on it, making him sigh at seeing it. “The only people who are going to need to know the specifics of how cells divide are scientists and doctors who monitor that process, with microscopes. I guess teachers do too.”

Edward smiled a little. “Apparently you need to know how cells divide too.”

Victoria shrugged. “I’m just here for the pay because I retain information in an odd way.”

“Care to share your secret, oh wise one?”

Victoria shook her head with a chuckle. “I dig around in their brain.”

Eddie rightfully looked at her confused. Of course he wouldn’t understand telepathy.

She refrased for normalcy. “Find people who are fascinated with a subject and talk to them. Ask questions, dig, you know?”

“The teachers would die if I did that.”

“Lucky for them, I’m here for you to ask the questions you want to know. If I need to, I’ll find out for you. Take notes during class and come to me with questions. For right now, let's go over this test.”

Victoria noticed Eddie was more relaxed after their talk and now she was doing everything in her willpower to treat him like all the others. She kept her hands away from his, refrained from pushing hair away from his face, staring at him too long, and making herself keep on track of the subject.

The time dragged on for that hour as she controlled herself. She wanted to get to know him more. He seemed like a good person, he was polite, friendly.

Victoria looked at the time. “I apologize, but my next person is going to be here soon. I see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I got the slot right after school.”

“Yeah. Not many want to get tutoring on Fridays.”

“Do you like to be here on Friday?”

“It is not terrible. Tutoring barely pays anything, but it's the same place as school, so I don't have to walk elsewhere. I also help the little food service going on in my house for some extra cash.”

“Dustin and Mike love your food, thankfully brought Hellfire a cookie for each of us last time we had a meeting."

Victoria stated, “the club for that fantasy board game?”

He rose his eyebrows, “You know about Hellfire? Dungeons and Dragons?”

Victoria scoffed. “Everyone talks about it in all the media as if it is worse than ouija boards.”

“Those boards for summoning ghosts?”

Victoria responded causally as she flipped through her calendar. “Not always ghosts so that's why anyone with a working brain stays away from them.”

“What do you mean, not always ghosts?”

Victoria wet her lips and as she realized she fucked up slightly. “You know in the movies. Usually something bad, like, a demon attaches to the ones using it. Haunting them, hurting them.”

“You think demons are real?”

“I think there are many things that have yet to be proven. Many find comfort in a religion or belief in higher entities because they fear the things that are uncommon and unknown. So those who are highly religious see those things as unholy. The fear of things they don't have in their straightline scriptures make them unwilling to understand anything else.”

“You are not religious?”

Victoria paused for a moment, “I was explaining that I do not agree with people who have a closed mind to new things."

Victoria slid the paper for him to sign and offered the calendar. "Sign there by the X, it is the form that I turn in to get payment and proof you were here. And if you want to, you can schedule for next week now or wait until a later time. Mrs. O'Donnell is going to have that quiz on Wednesday. Maybe Monday and Tuesday would be days to consider."

Edward looked at the dates for next week. Then tentatively spoke. "I have a gig at the Hideout on Tuesday night. With my band. Could we do a double on Monday? Is that okay?"

Victoria slid the planner to herself. "I only have an hour available on Monday left. I am done by six." Victoria looked at the clock, the next person was almost ten minutes late and with the importance of tonight she needed to get home. "You still have an hour available this week, out of the three. If you want, I could do it for two hours, tomorrow. Then, that way you could go over everything this weekend on your own and I could see what you need help with on Monday."

"Yeah. Uh.. sounds good."

Victoria pushed the planner to him. "Fill those in and you have 2 remaining hours for next week."

"Are you going to go? To the party?"

"According to the planner I am. Anyway, my next person will be here soon."

He gathered his few things, "Right. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good night, and be careful."

Edward stopped for a moment, a small smile on his lips. "You too."

#brightsun-and-darkmidnight #eddie munson #stranger things #The Angel and The Unholy #TATU #chapter 2

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embroidartery · 1 year

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My bumblebee jasper floss bundles are now available in my Etsy shop ❤️🐝

Stitch your next project with an array of colorful skeins inspired by gorgeous healing stones! This healing stone collection includes 10 DMC 6-strand cotton thread skeins, each 8 meters long.

Bumblebee Jasper Healing Properties:

* Boosts self-confidence

* Promotes joy and positivity

* Enhances creativity

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positivepropertysolutionau · 3 days

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How to pay ZERO INTEREST on your loan 🏠💰

Did you know that every dollar you deposit in an offset account reduces the interest on your loan equivalent to the amount you’ve deposited? That’s right… …if you have a $100,000 loan and the same amount in your offset account, you pay zero interest. ZERO! 🤩 Here’s how it works: 🏦 Open an Offset Account: This account works alongside your mortgage. 💵 Deposit Funds: Every dollar in this account…

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#Blue Collar investors portfolio guidance #FIFO #High Growth Investments Expertise #High Yield #Negative Gearing Guidance and expertise #Positive Geared Property guidance #Positive Property Blueprint #Property and Investment Portfolio Mentoring #Property Investing

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redandgoldwarhero · 1 year

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Sinister strange was in his study flipping through the Darkhold in efforts to expand his already very powerful magic. He carefully ran a a blackened finger over the dream walking spell and began to read about it. All of the sudden the door to his sanctum opened and he went to investigate. He was shocked to find another Stephen from the multi verse that was after his dark hold. He managed to fight off his variant. Just as he was starting to get the upper hand his glass bay window shattered sending him through it. Stephen let out a yelp of pain as a searing pain rips through his abdomen as he's impaled on the fence surrounding his property. He didn't want to die, he wasn't ready to. He also certainly wasn't ready to die such a painful death. He was suffering greatly as his variant returned to his own reality.

[In his personal realm after death, he was looking over blueprints he has been working on when a familiar shout made him drop his papers and look around. That had been Stephen's voice, he was positive, and the man was in distress. Without thinking twice, knowing now that he could move freely anywhere he wished, he summoned his armor and took off out of the realm to go look for the man whose distress called to him. He found himself flying through some kind of vortex and appeared in a world that was shattered and in pieces like a jigsaw puzzle. Quickly he flew to where he sensed Stephen life energy fading and found the man impaled on the fence.]

Oh my God. Strange, hang on!

[He flew over and cut the spikes off the fence as close as he could get them to the man's stomach and tossed them aside. He lifted him off of the fence and used the nano machines produced by his suit to seal his wounds enough to stop the bleeding so he could carry him into the Sanctum. He was confused by the water but went up the stairs nonetheless and to the living room where he lay him on the couch.]

Hang in there. Don't die on me just yet, Mister Doctor. Some doctor you'd be, giving into a wound this simple.

#marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #tony stark #iron man #stephen strange #doctor strange #doctor strange variant #sinister strange #sinisterstrange616 #dark romance #life after death

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dangersam · 7 months

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More tutorial and scripting improvements

Hey everyone, it's been months since my last dev blog update! As you will hopefully have seen, I recently announced the coming release of GearBlocks into early access for November 9th.

A lot of my time lately was spent preparing for this announcement. The trailer video was the biggest chunk of this work: planning, building content in game (including many new built-in constructions!), capturing footage, and editing it all together. I also improved the Steam store page and website with new screenshots, gifs, blurb, presskit, etc.

Tutorial scenario

I recently took the game to a local indie meetup, and had a few people try out the tutorial scenario. It was really useful and informative to watch people play it in person. The feedback was somewhat sobering though, some found it too complicated and struggled with information overload!

So I made some changes to the tutorial to try and simplify the information presented to players, and added more code to handle edge cases where players were getting stuck.

I've also set up a new build configuration for a special demo build with just the tutorial scenario in it, which I'm planning to use for the Steam Next Fest (coming on October 9th).

Lua scripting

I've continued to improve the Lua scripting interfaces, exposing more properties and methods for manipulating parts and constructions, adding more tool interfaces, and more vector / quaternion math stuff.

Further improvements were made to some of the included script mods, including the builder tool extensions (now with the ability to set / snap the pivot position & orientation, change the manipulators to work in world or local space, etc.)

Kit building

For the trailer video I wanted to show time lapses of some constructions being built. I also want to try creating scenarios where the player follows instructions to build pre-designed blueprint constructions, a bit like building from a model kit.

So I implemented a feature I'm calling "kit building", to cater for both of these situations. Parts can now be assigned a stage index and constructions have an active stage that can be set (where any of their parts in higher stages than the active one are hidden).

I made a script mod tool for setting part stage indices, and previewing a construction's stages. I actually used this tool when capturing for the trailer, just manually advancing through the stages in order, revealing the parts.

I also prototyped a kit building scenario with a simple Lua script to allow the player to advance through a blueprint construction's stages, automatically spawning the parts they need to build that stage. This idea has potential I think, but will need work to make it more user friendly.

Minor demo update

I decided to release another quick demo update, out now with some fixes and other small tweaks:-

Minor UI improvements, including a new "getting started" window that shows some helpful pointers when launching into a new game.

Improved attachment locking undo / redo (single command for multiple attachments).

Bug fixes (including fixing the differential idler gear centre-of-mass again).

#gearblocks #unity3d #game development #sandbox games #indie games

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pscottm · 1 year

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Clarence Thomas Didn’t Disclose Harlan Crow Real Estate Deal — ProPublica

The purchase put Crow in an unusual position: He now owned the house where the justice’s elderly mother was living. Soon after the sale was completed, contractors began work on tens of thousands of dollars of improvements on the two-bedroom, one-bathroom home, which looks out onto a patch of orange trees. The renovations included a carport, a repaired roof and a new fence and gates, according to city permit records and blueprints.

A federal disclosure law passed after Watergate requires justices and other officials to disclose the details of most real estate sales over $1,000. Thomas never disclosed his sale of the Savannah properties. That appears to be a violation of the law, four ethics law experts told ProPublica.

The disclosure form Thomas filed for that year also had a space to report the identity of the buyer in any private transaction, such as a real estate deal. That space is blank

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milanarora · 1 year

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— BASICS

Name: Milan Arora Age / D.O.B.: 37 / 1st August 1984 Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Cismale, he/him, heterosexual Hometown: New York City, New York Affiliation: Media Job position: News Anchor @ ABC Education: Harvard, BA (PoliSci) Relationship status: Engaged Children: None Positive traits: Outgoing, Fun-loving, Generous, Confident, Personable Negative traits: Vain, Immature, Irresponsible, Self-absorbed, Dramatic

— BIOGRAPHY

The Arora dynasty -- their bloodline can be traced back to Indian nobility where their wealth primarily came from land, property and gold.

The decision to settle in America came from Milan’s grandfather. Him and his two brothers decided to branch out and America was the perfect playground for them to build on.

It didn’t come without struggles, finding their place in rich white America wasn’t easy, but they were able to establish their standing through hard work and the help from connections, and now the family are able to enjoy their prominence.

Now they share the blueprint of the typical, American old money family, with a finger in every pie: business, politics, law, entertainment and the media.

Milan’s dad took over the family business, one of the biggest privately owned conglomerates in the world, whilst his mom is a retired actress. They are known for their political and investing activities, creating a network of donors with like-minded individuals.

As a child, it was obvious Milan was never academically driven. He loved to have fun, spend time with his friends, and got distracted too easily. His grades were above average, but he lacked the ambition to excel, to be the best of the best. And that’s where he fell short of expectations.

Harvard was the obvious choice for him, though it has never occurred to him that he was only accepted because of his family name.

A classic nepotism baby who thinks his hard work is the same as everyone else’s hard work. He did everything the ‘right’ way, started from the bottom and worked his way up to the top, though essentially he has had his foot in the door since birth.

As time went on, it became clear Milan would not follow the path his parents had planned for him. That wasn’t for a lack of trying, however. He wanted to be taken seriously, to be the star of the family and impress everyone with his accolades. Unfortunately, he just loved people too much. Attention, validation. Fame. And so, he went into media. More specifically, the news.

Once he finally reached the screen, the reviews were great. He was loved! He boosted ratings. He started off as a substitute, then became a news anchor, from overnight shows to morning shows, and then finally getting his own morning news slot at ABC as a co-anchor.

His engagement was informally arranged. Milan has always known he would marry Simran. Their families were close, it was talked about openly, as though it was expected of them but it was their choice, and Milan had no desire to let anyone down. Besides, Simran has always been so pretty!

Their relationship began after graduating from Harvard. It started off like a dream, he fell for her fast. But when the time came to announce their engagement, Milan had his reservations but he was determined to make it work. It was clear neither of their hearts were truly in it, but it was convenient.

Simran decided to make it work for them, making their relationship very public, crafting this picture perfect image for themselves. With both of their jobs placing them in the limelight, it was one thing to be good but another to be likeable. People became invested in them, in their relationship and it helped attract viewers and increase ratings.

Milan has always liked this side to her. It makes him feel like they are on the same page. Their families are always about image, intensely so. Rarely does a scandal ever reach the light, and it’s nice to know that this doesn’t scare her off. She has always been by his side, despite all of his fuck ups, and he couldn’t be more grateful. Every now and again, he’s sure he’s still in love with her, but then they’ll fight, or he’ll have a conversation with a total stranger, and he’s back to square one.

For now, however, it works for him but he has bigger goals. Doing the news on ABC is only a stepping stone. He wants the prime time slot at CNN, by himself, where he would be taken a little more seriously. Reporting real news to real people.

A lot of his critics complain he is only there through nepotism, that he is more of a celebrity than a news anchor (they’re not wrong, he loves a good hashtag), his family have high expectations of him (to achieve more than what he would’ve achieved had he become a politician), so he has a lot to prove and he is starting to feel the pressure.

However, he has made many mistakes along the way, things that could come out and ruin his reputation: drugs, strip club, cheating, friends with gang members. Every day he wakes up and fears it will leak and this has made him incredibly restless. He wants to bury all leads before progressing in his career and with that he’ll need to enlist the help of some friends.

Personality wise, Milan channels the Kardashian spirit. Loves social media. He is Cringe but he is free. He loves attention, obsessed with validation, and loves to be liked. Honestly portrays himself as someone who is super down-to-earth, relatable, one of the ‘people’. In some ways, he is naïve, genuinely tends to see the good in others and has a fairly big heart. He’ll talk to anyone he bumps into on the street, and if they thought of him poorly beforehand then it’s likely they would’ve changed their minds. But he is inherently selfish. If he wants something, he’ll go for it, and if it hurts someone along the way, he’ll simply regret it after.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS

SIMRAN - His wife. Most of the details are in the bio but happy to flesh them out a bit more. The general vibe is they have a strained relationship but it’s too late to back out now and it is convenient. To the public, they have a perfect relationship, the kind that people always post like ‘if they break up then true love isn’t real’. At home, they’re hot or cold with each other. They fight and the love is barely there. This has lead to Milan seeking it elsewhere and Simran doesn’t know about it, or if she does then Milan doesn’t know that she knows, and honestly she could be cheating on him too. But it is vital that it doesn’t come out.

GHOST WRITER - Milan isn’t stupid but he definitely wouldn’t be where he is now without the influence from his family. He isn’t underqualified per se but he has the help of interns, assistants, journalists who write his questions for him beforehand and he rarely goes off script. This could be someone who either enjoys their job or feels very undervalued and feels like they should be in Milan’s spot.

CHILDHOOD FRIENDS - People from high society, influential families, etc. He’s social butterfly, likes to befriend everyone and is good at maintaining all those friendships. A true and loyal friend, someone who will always have your back, and will always show up at your door if you need a shoulder to cry on. That’s why it’s hard when he does eventually fuck up over a stupid mistake.

Specifically Laurie x Jo or Laurie x Amy vibes. Anything Laurie x March family basically.

ALMOST - Probably a childhood friend, someone he has known for a long time. Milan has always had feelings for her, and it was probably obvious to a lot of people, including her. I think it’d be spicy if it was unrequited but ofc the decision is UTP. Either way, both of them knew it could never become anything serious because of his arranged marriage, so maybe she thought he was just joking, or never took him seriously, but they managed to stay friends despite it all. He probably will always have feelings for this person.

EXES/EX FLINGS - Self-explanatory. It could be at any stage of his life up until his marriage around 5 years ago. Could’ve ended on a good note, terrible note, maybe they haven’t managed to end it clearly so keep circling back to each other.

FIRE EMOJI - They’ve been talking in the dms and it could be passed off as friendly, but also not really. Maybe milan is reading too into it. For whatever reason, either on milan’s part or your characters, they haven’t had a chance to meet up yet. But now they’ve finally set a date...

LET LOOSE - Maybe a gang member who owns a club or a bar and Milan trusts them enough to be able to let loose in private, away from the public eye. Maybe they were friends beforehand, or maybe Milan pays them a hefty sum of money, or has even invested.

POLITICIANS - Someone whose campaign he worked on during college, or maybe they didn’t like the way he covered one of their elections, or maybe they want to befriend him to serve him well for an upcoming election.

RIVAL - Someone from a rival network who has a show at the same time as him. They are at each other’s throats. Anyone behind the scenes are aware of this but in front of the cameras they’ll smile and give each other a hug.

YOU DID WHAT - Milan likes to think he is dedicated to finding the right story but honestly he has other priorities. He likes debriefs, scripts, morning meetings whilst he’s getting his hair done. But maybe he stumbled across a story, involving a gang member or someone corrupt in a high position, and your character knows who he is and is trying to scare him into not doing anything with it.

GANG GANG - several ideas for characters involved in a gang:

Someone he met randomly, literally anywhere, and they got on and became friends. The gang member could’ve lied about what they really do for whatever reason and Milan believes it. Maybe it’s some sob story, and Milan gives them like a wad of cash thinking he’s helping them out. Has potential to be very, very funny if the truth ever comes out because he’ll just be like this.

Alternatively, someone who he was friends with but found out about their nature of work and Milan decided to cut ties with them.

Dealers who will keep quiet but honestly Milan will also want to talk about his day

Other generic connections I haven’t listed above but as always I’m willing to brainstorm anything!

#wb.intro #so long and for what

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